lilt, 
ill 


The  MAKING  of  a 
STATESMAN 


The   MAKING   of  a 
STATESMAN 

And  Other  Stories 

Bjr 

JOEL    CHANDLER    HARRIS 

Author  of 
"Uncle  Remus,"  "Gabriel  foBtoerf  &c. 


New  Tork 

M<?CLURE,   PHILLIPS   &  Co 
1902 


Copyright,   1902  by  JOEL  CHANDLER    HARRIS 

Copyright,  1900,  1902,  by  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  Co. 

Copyright,  1901,  by  COSMOPOLITAN  MAGAZINX  Co. 

Copyright,  1900,  by  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


Published,  March,  JQO2, 


SECOND  EDITION 


The  Contents 

r     lllll 

Making  of  a  Statesman     ....       / 

A  Child  of  Christmas 77 

Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer  .     .     .  757 
Miss  Puss's  Parasol 


957084 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 


rHERE  was  surprise  and  consternation 
in  Middle  Georgia  when  the  announce 
ment  was  made  that  Mary  Lou  Lums- 
den  had  consented  to  take  Meredith  Feather- 
stone  for  her  husband.  She  was  the  most 
beautiful,  the  most  accomplished,  and  the  most 
popular  young  woman  in  the  State.  Such  was 
her  native  tact  and  amiability,  such  was  the 
charm  of  her  personality,  that  she  was  as  popu 
lar  with  the  women  as  with  the  men.  She  had 
what  is  called  a  sympathetic  nature.  She 
had  broadened  her  mind  in  every  way.  She 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  best  educational 
facilities  of  her  day  and  time,  and,  in  addition, 
had  made  the  tour  of  Europe. 

The  man  she  had  chosen  for  her  husband 
was,  as  her  friends  declared,  the  last  man  in  the 

[3] 


"  -  fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 
\vorM  to  attract  the  attention  of  such  a  woman. 
He  was  at  least  ten  years  her  senior,  and  had  no 
qualities  of  mind  or  attributes  of  person  to 
equalize  this  disparity  of  years.  He  was  not 
handsome;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  a  gloomy 
and  lowering  countenance.  And  yet,  after  all 
was  said,  he  had  a  certain  quality  of  promise  in 
his  features.  He  was  dignified,  and  he  was  a 
fairly  good  talker. 

The  explanation  that  Miss  Lumsden  vouch 
safed  to  her  friends  was  that  she  not  only  loved 
Meredith  Featherstone,  but  had  discovered  in 
him  the  slowly  developing  elements  that  were 
finally  to  make  him  distinguished  among  men. 
She  was  contented  and  happy,  and  her  friends 
were  compelled  to  make  the  most  of  a  situation 
they  could  not  control.  She  married  Meredith 
Featherstone,  in  due  time  bore  him  a  daughter 
who  grew  to  be  the  embodiment  of  grace  and 
beauty,  and  continued  to  wait  hopefully  for  the 
day  when  her  husband  was  to  reach  distinction. 
She  wanted  him  to  be  a  public  man,  a  states 
man;  she  longed  for  the  day  when  he  would  be 
W 


<fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

able  to  rise  to  his  feet  in  an  assemblage  and 
command  attention  not  less  by  the  wisdom  and 
beauty  of  his  words  than  by  his  commanding 
presence  and  powerful  personality. 

Her  heart  was  set  on  such  a  career  for  Mer 
edith  Featherstone.  She  dreamed  of  it,  and 
lived  on  the  dreams.  The  husband,  who  was  a 
model  of  complacency  in  matters  that  con 
cerned  his  wife,  read  a  number  of  books  to 
please  her—  "Niks'  Register,"  the  "Federal 
ist,"  arguments  on  the  nature  and  meaning  of 
the  Constitution,  histories,  biographies,  and  es 
says;  but  there  never  was  a  moment  when  he 
was  not  ready  to  throw  away  the  volumes  when 
an  opportunity  occurred  for  him  to  get  the  ad 
vantage  of  one  of  his  fellow-citizens  in  a  trade 
or  dicker. 

After  her  marriage  Mrs.  Featherstone  be 
came  greatly  interested  in  the  college  com 
mencements  that  take  place  every  year.  On 
one  occasion,  nothing  would  do  but  her  hus 
band  must  take  her  to  the  closing  exercises  of 
the  University  of  Virginia.  Once  she  went  to 
[5] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

Harvard,  taking  her  husband  along  so  that  he 
might  get  such  a  whiff  of  oratory  and  scholar 
ship  as  would  kindle  the  smouldering  fires  of 
his  ambition.  In  1853,  or  it  may  have  been 
1854,  Mrs.  Featherstone,  with  her  husband  and 
daughter,  attended  the  commencement  exer 
cises  of  Franklin  College — it  is  now  the  Uni 
versity  of  Georgia — and  she  was  amply  repaid 
for  the  trouble  of  the  visit,  not  only  because 
of  the  opportunity  it  afforded  her  of  renewing 
her  associations  with  friends  from  all  parts  of 
the  State,  but  because  it  brought  her  in  contact 
with  Billy  Spence,  who,  in  his  graduating  year, 
had  become  the  hero  of  his  class  and  college. 

The  Featherstones  had  not  been  in  the  town 
an  hour  before  they  began  to  hear  of  the  won 
derful  Billy  Spence.  There  was  a  deep  mys 
tery  behind  him,  and,  his  admirers  declared,  a 
glorious  future  before  him.  The  mystery  be 
hind  him  attracted  attention,  and  his  personal 
ity  and  talents  held  it.  Indeed,  there  was  so 
much  talk  of  Billy  Spence  that  the  Feather- 
stones  were  compelled  in  self-defence  to  inquire 
[6] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

into  his  history.     It  was  very  simple,  and  at  the 
same  time  very  mysterious. 

In  the  late  thirties  the  old  mail-coach  drew 
up  at  the  tavern  in  Hillsborough  in  Middle 
Georgia  with  two  passengers — a  lady,  who  was 
very  ill,  and  her  husband,  who  was  very  drunk. 
The  night  was  such  a  wild  one  that  the  coach 
could  not  pursue  its  journey,  though  there  was 
a  relay  of  fresh  horses  awaiting  it.  During  the 
night  the  lady  died,  and  the  man  disappeared 
as  mysteriously  as  if  he  had  been  caught  up  on 
the  bosom  of  the  storm  and  whirled  into  infi 
nite  space.  In  dying,  the  lady  left  a  new-born 
infant,  whose  destiny  promised  to  be  a  sad  one. 
Happily,  the  child  fell  into  the  gentle  hands  of 
Mrs.  Janie  Spence,  who  was  with  the  mother 
when  she  died.  Mrs.  Spence  was  a  widow, 
who,  without  resources  of  her  own,  supported 
herself  with  her  needle.  In  spite  of  her  pov 
erty,  perhaps  by  reason  of  it,  she  took  charge 
of  the  helpless  child  and  brought  it  up  as  her 
own.  Her  charitable  impulse  bore  good  fruit, 
for  her  example  made  itself  felt  in  the  town, 

[7] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

and  she  was  not  without  assistance  in  rearing 
the  boy,  who  had  been  humorously  named 
William  Shakespeare  Spence  by  one  of  the 
town  worthies. 

When  the  little  fellow  grew  large  enough  to 
attract  attention,  it  was  seen  that  he  was  no 
ordinary  child.  He  was  sent  to  the  village 
school  at  the  public  expense,  and  when  the 
proper  time  came,  a  dozen  or  more  citizens 
subscribed  the  funds  necessary  to  send  him  to 
college.  In  the  college  he  took  high  rank  at 
once,  not  because  he  was  particularly  studious, 
but  because  he  was  bright.  He  was  not  a 
plodder,  and  it  was  observed  by  his  tutors  that 
he  was  not  specially  ambitious.  He  was  not 
moved  by  the  applause  that  greeted  him  when 
he  made  a  speech,  nor  did  he  seem  to  set  any 
great  store  by  the  reputation  which  he  had 
gained  at  college. 

His  lack  of  ambition  was  especially  noticea 
ble  during  his  graduation  year.  At  the  begin 
ning  of  that  college  year  Mrs.  Janie  Spence 
had  died;  and  to  the  young  man  it  seemed  that 
[8] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  worth  living 
for.  His  Janie,  as  he  called  her,  had  faithfully 
fulfilled  all  the  duties  of  a  mother  to  him,  and 
he  had  loved  her  with  a  tenderness  that  boys 
rarely  display.  Billy  did  not  despair.  He 
had  studied  and  succeeded  in  his  college  tasks 
to  please  his  Janie,  and  now  that  she  was  gone, 
there  seemed  little  left  for  him  to  do. 

Mrs.  Spence  was  to  have  heard  his  gradua 
tion  speech,  but  now  she  could  not  hear  him, 
and  it  needed  all  his  resolution  to  rise  before 
the  swarming  multitude — he  had  never  seen  so 
large  an  audience — and  deliver  the  speech  that 
he  had  intended  to  make  for  his  Janie's  sake. 
When  he  rose  to  his  feet  he  cast  his  eyes  over 
the  crowd,  and  permitted  them  to  wander 
about  until  they  fell  on  a  group  of  three,  a  lady, 
a  little  girl,  and  a  man  of  uncertain  age.  This 
group  was  made  up  of  our  friends,  the  Feather- 
stones.  The  lady,  not  half  an  hour  before,  had 
heard  Billy's  strange  and  sad  story  from  one 
who  liked  the  young  man  well  enough  to  tell 
it  well.  The  little  girl  had  heard  it,  too;  and 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
though  she  was  not  more  than  ten  or  eleven 
years  old,  she  had  the  charm  of  sympathy  about 
her — and  she  was  wonderfully  beautiful.  Billy 
was  willing  to  believe  that  it  was  the  face  of  an 
angel  that  he  saw  in  the  multitude.  It  seemed 
to  console  him  for  his  Janie's  absence.  The 
face  of  the  lady  was  even  more  eloquent  of 
sympathy  than  that  of  the  child,  and  was  al 
most  as  lovely.  To  this  interesting  couple, 
therefore,  he  delivered  the  greater  part  of  his 
speech. 

It  may  be  judged  whether  the  speech  was 
successful,  not  only  by  the  applause  with  which 
it  was  greeted,  but  by  the  actions  of  the  stu 
dents.  When  the  exercises  were  over,  Billy's 
classmates  seized  him  and  bore  him  on  their 
shoulders  around  the  college  campus,  yelling 
and  singing  the  college  songs.  The  procession 
was  made  more  triumphant  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  all  the  students  joined  in  the  march, 
thus  furnishing  a  spectacle  which,  up  to  that 
time,  was  without  precedent  in  the  history  of 
the  college. 

[10] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

If  the  speech  was  a  triumph  for  Billy,  it  was 
also  a  triumph  for  the  tactics  of  Mrs.  Feather- 
stone,  who  had  all  along  been  trying  to  make 
a  statesman  of  her  husband.  The  man  fell 
completely  under  the  spell  of  Billy's  oratory. 
Surely,  he  thought,  if  a  mere  boy  can  produce 
these  results,  it  should  not  be  very  difficult  for 
a  grown  man  to  match  them.  And,  indeed, 
it  seemed  to  be  a  very  easy  matter.  It  was  no 
trouble  at  all  for  Billy  Spence  to  seize  and  hold 
the  undivided  attention  of  the  audience,  to 
charm  it  with  his  periods,  to  convulse  it  with 
laughter,  or  melt  it  to  tears. 

As  soon  as  he  could,  Mr.  Featherstone 
sought  Billy  out,  drew  him  away  from  a  crowd 
of  admirers,  and  presented  him  to  his  wife  and 
daughter.  The  lad  found  the  lady  charming 
and  something  more.  The  sympathy  that  illu 
minated  her  countenance  told  him  over  and 
over  again  that  she  could  be  to  him  a  friend 
whose  hearty  interest  was  worth  having.  With 
the  exception  of  his  Janie's  eyes,  those  of  the 
lady  were  the  only  ones  he  had  ever  seen  that 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

seemed  to  hold  sincerity  always  in  their  liquid 
depths. 

Without  any  preface  or  prelude,  Meredith 
Featherstone  invited  the  young  man  to  his 
plantation  home  near  Halcyondale,  and  this  in 
vitation  was  warmly  seconded  by  the  lady  and 
her  daughter.  It  was  the  child,  indeed,  who 
carried  the  day.  "  If  you  will  come,"  she  said, 
archly,  "  I'll  call  you  Cousin  Billy."  She  laid 
her  small  white  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked 
into  his  eyes  with  an  appeal  that  he  found  it 
impossible  to  resist;  and,  instead  of  returning 
to  the  town  where  he  was  born,  he  found  him 
self,  when  the  college  exercises  were  over,  jour 
neying  toward  Halcyondale  in  the  Feather- 
stone  carriage. 

Wearing  his  honors  with  unexampled  mod 
esty,  Young  Spence  was  duly  installed  at  the 
Featherstone  place  as  guest.  The  hospitality 
in  vogue  there,  quickened  by  the  enthusiastic 
sincerity  of  the  mistress,  was  of  such  a  charac 
ter  as  to  leave  the  young  man  entirely  free. 
Emily,  the  child,  true  to  her  promise,  called 

[12] 


Mating  of  a  Statesman 

him  Cousin  Billy,  and,  as  it  was  her  vacation 
time,  she  was  his  constant  companion.  She 
went  with  him  to  the  small  town  not  far  away; 
she  showed  him  the  curiosities  of  the  neighbor 
hood — the  cold  well,  the  high  hill,  the  big  lob 
lolly  pine,  the  thicket  where  a  big  black  bear 
had  killed  a  man,  the  stream  of  water  known  as 
Murder  Creek — the  name  growing  out  of  the 
fact  that  the  Indians  had  there  waylaid  and 
massacred  a  number  of  white  emigrants,  men 
women,  and  children.  She  showed  him  also  a 
negro  man  who  had  been  stolen  by  John  A. 
Murrell,  the  famous  land  pirate. 

But  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  little 
girl  had  the  guest  all  to  herself.  She  was 
forced  into  the  background  at  night,  when 
Billy  sat  on  the  veranda  with  his  host  and 
hostess;  and  oftentimes  the  talk  of  the  lady 
grew  confidential — as  when  she  told  the  lad  of 
the  ambition  she  had  for  her  husband;  how  she 
wanted  him  to  become  distinguished  as  a  politi 
cal  leader,  and  how  she  would  never  be  com 
pletely  happy  until  he  could  captivate  and  hold 
[13] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

a  crowd  as  she  had  seen  Billy  do.  Meredith 
Featherstone,  for  himself,  pooh-poohed  his 
wife's  ambitious  desires;  but  Billy,  seeing  that 
it  would  please  her,  did  all  he  could  to  stimu 
late  her  hope.  Indeed,  he  went  so  far  as  to 
declare  that  speech-making  is  an  art  that  can 
be  easily  acquired  by  any  intelligent  man  who 
will  seriously  undertake  it. 

"  But  the  speeches/'  said  Meredith  Feather- 
stone,  lifting  his  heavy  eyebrows;  "  where  are 
they  to  come  from?  " 

"  A  speech/'  declared  Billy,  with  a  con 
temptuous  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  is  a  mere 
matter  of  moonshine.  You  string  a  lot  of 
high-sounding  words  and  phrases  together — 
the  sound  is  more  important  than  the  sense 
— and  walk  out  before  the  crowd.  Then  you 
glance  around  carelessly,  and  select  someone  to 
make  your  speech  to.  Do  you  know  to  whom 
I  was  speaking  the  other  day?  Why,  to  you 
and  your  daughter." 

"  I  told  you  so,  mother!  I  told  you  so!  "  ex 
claimed  the  child,  clapping  her  hands  gleefully, 
and  blushing  a  little. 

[14] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

There  was  something  in  the  pleased  glances 
of  the  child  that  touched  the  young  man  deep 
ly;  and,  indeed,  the  whole  situation  appealed 
to  his  gratitude.  As  he  looked  at  the  mother 
and  daughter,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  make  them  both 
very  happy;  and  to  that  end  he  determined  to 
address  himself.  This  determination  was  the 
result  of  many  causes.  Billy  Spence  lived 
among  a  people  who  were  able  to  find  some 
thing  real  and  satisfying  in  the  ideals  of  chiv 
alry.  A  woman's  honor,  a  woman's  pleasure, 
were  all  in  all  to  them.  They  held  themselves 
aloof  from  the  spirit  and  movement  of  com 
merce  and  trade,  and  they  looked  askance  at 
what  is  still  glibly  called  "  progress."  They 
had  not  been  bitten  by  what  a  prominent 
Southern  man  has  named  the  Money  Devil. 
Young  Spence  was  a  very  definite  and  sensi 
tive  part  of  his  time  and  environment.  The 
lady  and  the  little  girl  were  fond  of  him;  they 
gave  him  their  ready  sympathy;  and  to  please 
one  or  the  other,  or  both,  he  was  willing  to  sac- 
[•5] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

rifice  his  own  future,  which  he  had  never  self 
ishly  looked  forward  to.  He  had  been  ready 
to  win  fame  for  his  Janie.  That  incentive  hav 
ing  been  blown  out  like  a  candle,  he  was  ready 
to  relinquish  whatever  aims  he  may  have  had 
for  the  sake  of  those  whom  he  regarded  as  his 
friends,  and,  in  a  sense,  his  benefactors.  It 
was  a  romantic  notion,  and  in  the  end  it  caused 
him  no  little  mortification.  With  no  an 
nouncement  of  his  plans,  he  undertook  the 
work  of  making  what  the  world  is  pleased  to 
call  a  statesman  of  Meredith  Featherstone.  It 
was  no  holiday  task.  For  hours  every  day  they 
would  be  closeted  together,  and  sometimes  far 
into  the  night.  The  undertaking  had  its  diffi 
culties,  as  might  be  supposed,  but  Billy  Spence 
kept  at  it  with  a  persistence  that  would  have 
been  sadly  lacking  if  he  had  been  laboring  in 
his  own  behalf. 

We  shall  have  to  judge  of  Billy  Spence's 

success  as  a  tutor  by  the  events  that  followed. 

So  far  as  his  personality  was  concerned,  he 

dropped  out  of  sight  and  was  effaced.    Those 

[16] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

who  had  mapped  out  a  career  for  him  on  the 
strength  of  his  success  in  college,  which  was 
notable,  were  obliged  to  agree  with  those  who 
said  he  was  a  failure.  The  reports  that  went 
abroad  in  regard  to  him  were  such  as  follow  in 
the  wake  of  all  who  fall  below  the  ideals  they 
have  implanted  in  the  public  mind. 

Even  the  warmest  friends  of  Billy  Spence  be 
gan  to  lose  heart.  When  they  inquired  about 
him,  the  information  they  received  was  not  re 
assuring.  He  was  eating  the  bread  of  idleness 
at  Featherstone's.  Instead  of  pursuing  his 
studies  and  making  an  effort  to  carve  out  a 
career  such  as  his  marvellous  gifts  would  have 
justified,  he  was  clinging  to  Meredith  Feather- 
stone's  coat-tails,  or  dancing  attendance  on  him 
as  a  lackey  does  on  his  master.  Such  was  the 
common  report  and  belief.  All  the  high  prom 
ises  that  belonged  to  Billy's  college  career 
dropped  away  from  him,  one  by  one,  until, 
finally,  it  was  agreed  that  he  would  never  be 
anything  more  than  Meredith  Featherstone's 
dependent. 

[17] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

Such  a  condition  of  things  was  not  uncom 
mon  in  that  day.  Kings  had  had  their  fools  to 
amuse  them,  and  it  was  frequently  the  case  that 
the  more  prosperous  of  the  Southern  planters 
had  about  them  ne'er-do-wells  with  a  nimble 
wit  and  a  sharp  tongue.  And  this  was  what 
Billy  Spence's  reputation  came  to  at  last;  but 
not  before  he  had  witnessed  the  success  of 
his  persistent  efforts  in  behalf  of  Meredith 
Featherstone.  Proceeding  with  the  approving 
smiles  of  the  lady  and  her  daughter  (the  young 
girl  was  growing  more  charming  as  the  days 
went  by)  Billy  could  well  afford  to  shut  his  ears 
to  the  reports  that  were  in  circulation  with  re 
spect  to  his  idle  and  shiftless  habits. 

The  mother  and  daughter,  it  should  be  ob 
served,  had  no  accurate  idea  of  the  nature  of 
the  process  which  they  were  approving  so 
heartily.  All  that  they  knew  was  that  Billy 
was  training  the  husband  and  father  in  the  ele 
ments  and  methods  of  elocution;  preparing 
him,  as  it  were,  to  make  a  presentable  figure 
on  the  platform,  and  initiating  him  in  the  sim- 
[18] 


*fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

pie  art  of  oratory.  The  public,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  knew  nothing  of  all  this  preparation. 
Mr.  Featherstone  went  about  among  them 
with  an  inscrutable  countenance — but  inscru 
tability  had  been  tacked  to  his  features  when 
he  was  born,  and  meant  nothing  whatever  to 
those  who  had  known  him  all  along. 

There  was  considerable  astonishment  when, 
one  morning,  the  inhabitants  of  Halcyondale 
awoke  and  found  neatly  printed  handbills  post 
ed  in  the  public  places,  announcing  that  Mere 
dith  Featherstone  would,  on  the  first  Tuesday 
in  August,  address  his  fellow-citizens  on  the 
various  burning  issues  of  the  day.  As  the  year 
was  1856,  the  first  Tuesday  fell  on  the  fifth  of 
the  month;  and  the  day  is  still  regarded  by  the 
oldest  inhabitants  as  the  most  memorable  in 
the  history  of  that  section.  There  were  many 
surmises  in  regard  to  the  announcement,  and 
comment  was  not  lacking,  particularly  as  poli 
tics  was  very  warm,  the  issues  being  practical 
ly  what  they  were  four  years  later.  The  main 
question  was  Union  or  Disunion,  and  the  two 
parties  were  badly  divided  on  the  question. 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
On  the  day  that  Mr.  Featherstone  was  to 
deliver  his  speech,  a  large  concourse  of  people 
gathered  at  the  Bush  Arbor,  which  had  been 
newly  repaired  for  the  occasion.  This  arbor 
had  been  erected  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
Methodist  District  Conference;  but  as  that 
body  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things,  occupy 
it  every  year,  it  was  frequently  turned  over  to 
the  worldly  minded,  who  preferred  politics  to 
religion,  especially  on  week-days.  The  arbor 
had  been  built  with  an  eye  to  the  accommoda 
tion  of  large  audiences,  but  it  is  very  doubtful 
if  an  audience  as  large  as  that  which  greeted 
Mr.  Featherstone  had  ever  assembled  there 
before.  Taking  advantage  of  the  fine  weather, 
the  voters  had  poured  in  from  the  adjoining 
counties,  bringing  their  families  with  them,  and 
the  woods  round  about  the  arbor  presented  the 
appearance  of  a  confused  wilderness  of  horses 
and  mules,  and  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  vehicles. 

The  speech  delivered  by  Mr.  Featherstone 
need  not  be  described  here.     It  was  a  very  suc 
cessful  effort.     It  was  delivered  with  consider- 
[20] 


<fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

able  vigor  and  made  a  profound  impression  on 
the  multitude.  A  vein  of  strong  common-sense 
ran  all  through  it,  and  there  were  bursts  of  elo 
quence  that  everybody  said  were  worthy  of 
Toombs  and  Stephens.  It  was  full  of  humor, 
too;  the  sort  of  humor  that  makes  an  irresisti 
ble  appeal  to  a  mixed  assemblage;  and  when 
the  speaker  concluded,  he  was  greeted  with  the 
wildest  cheering  that  had  ever  aroused  the 
echoes  in  that  neighborhood. 

The  wife  and  daughter  had  seats  close  to  the 
front,  and  with  them  sat  Mr.  Billy  Spence,  the 
dependent.  He  sat  next  the  daughter,  and 
more  than  once  when  her  father  grew  eloquent, 
or  when  his  utterances  elicited  enthusiastic 
applause,  she  clasped  Billy's  arm  convulsively. 
As  for  Mrs.  Featherstone,  she  sat  in  a  state  of 
ecstatic  enjoyment  from  the  moment  that  her 
husband's  triumph  was  assured;  and  Billy,  gaz 
ing  fondly  on  the  two,  thanked  heaven  that  he 
had  been  able  to  contribute  to  their  happiness. 
He  had  no  thought  of  himself.  It  never  oc 
curred  to  him  to  measure  what  he  had  thrown, 
[21] 


fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

and  intended  to  throw,  away;  he  was  simply 
filled  with  gratitude  that  he  had  been  able  to 
bring  happiness  to  the  hearts  of  these  two.  He 
was  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  to  produce 
that  result.  Having  made  one  sacrifice,  cir 
cumstances  compelled  him  to  make  others;  and 
he  went  about  it  with  a  light  heart  and  a  cheer 
ful  mind. 

The  speech  was  a  great  success,  as  we  have 
seen.  Mr.  Featherstone  stepped  upon  the 
platform  a  plain,  ordinary  citizen;  he  stepped 
down  a  great  man.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  he  put 
on  no  airs  about  it.  He  seemed  surprised,  in 
deed,  to  find  his  wife  crying  when  he  made  his 
way  to  her  in  the  dense  crowd.  For  a  moment 
there  was  an  alarmed  expression  on  his  face. 

"Why  are  you  crying,  Mary  Lou?"  he 
asked,  uneasily. 

"Oh,  because  I  am  so  happy!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"Humph!"  he  grunted,  rubbing  his  nose. 
"  It's  a  mighty  queer  way  to  show  happiness — 
don't  you  think  so,  Billy?  " 
[22] 


'•fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

But  Billy  was  laughing  and  talking  with  the 
daughter,  and  if  he  heard  the  remark,  he  paid 
no  attention  to  it.  He  led  Emily  out  to  the 
carriage,  she  clinging  fondly  to  his  arm,  and 
there  they  waited  for  the  others  to  join  them — 
waited,  that  is  to  say,  until  the  girl  became 
impatient,  for  the  newly  made  orator  found 
it  difficult  to  escape  from  the  enthusiastic 
congratulations  of  his  friends  and  acquaint 
ances. 

Meredith  Featherstone  now  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  follow  up  his  first  success;  and  he  did 
this  so  well  that  he  soon  became  one  of  the 
most  influential  political  leaders  in  the  State. 
He  ranked  with  Stephens,  Toombs,  and  Hill. 
He  carried  to  a  triumphant  issue  the  campaign 
he  had  begun  at  his  own  home.  He  was  elect 
ed  to  the  State  Senate,  where  he  served  two 
terms.  He  was  energetic  in  advocating  and 
promoting  the  secession  movement,  and  when 
the  Confederate  Government  was  organized 
he  was  elected  to  the  Lower  House  of  Con 
gress,  where  he  made  a  record  that  was  ap- 
[23] 


!fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

proved  not  only  by  his  own  immediate  constit 
uents,  but  by  the  whole  South. 

With  the  collapse  of  the  Confederacy,  Mr. 
Featherstone  found  his  occupation  gone,  but 
he  soon  found  a  field  for  his  activity  in  the  op 
position  that  the  reconstruction  acts  aroused. 
He  refused  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance,  and 
became  a  somewhat  embittered  irreconcilable. 
His  bitterness  was  rendered  more  acute  by  the 
fact  that  his  wife  died  shortly  after  the  close  of 
the  war.  The  poor  lady  had  enjoyed  the  tri 
umphs  of  her  husband  more  than  if  they  had 
been  her  own.  Her  highest  ambition  had  been 
fulfilled,  and  she  died  blessing  those  whom  she 
had  loved  so  fondly  all  her  life. 

Now,  experience  and  common-sense,  as  well 
as  the  poet,  tell  us  that  to  this  complexion  we 
must  all  come  at  last;  and  so,  in  the  early  seven 
ties,  while  Meredith  Featherstone  was  consult 
ing  with  some  of  the  political  leaders  of  the 
State,  he  suddenly  lost  his  hold  upon  life  and 
joined  the  great  majority. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  one  evening  in  the  late 

[24] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

fall  of  1872  three  men  sat  in  a  room  that  had 
but  one  other  occupant — a  dead  man,  who  lay 
with  a  sheet  spread  over  his  face  and  form. 
Two  of  the  men  were  far  past  middle  age,  and, 
by  virtue  of  that  fact,  sat  close  to  the  small  fire 
which  the  forethought  of  someone  had  caused 
to  be  kindled  on  the  wide  hearth.  The  third 
man  was  no  other  than  Mr.  Billy  Spence,  who, 
having  barely  reached  the  prime  of  life,  sat 
farther  back,  a  position  that  brought  him  close 
to  the  silent  figure  under  the  sheet.  Mr. 
Spence  was  serious  enough,  but  there  was 
something  about  his  attitude  and  bearing — it 
would  be  hard  to  say  what — that  was  far  from 
meeting  the  approval  of  the  old  men. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  younger  man  had 
never  quite  met  their  approval.  According  to 
their  view,  he  had  never  lived  up  to  his  oppor 
tunities — -far  from  it,  indeed.  They  considered 
that  he  had  wilfully  violated  one  of  their  treas 
ured  maxims — a  maxim  that  had  the  authority 
of  the  Almighty  behind  it — in  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  shall  man's  bread  be  earned.  Now,  if  the 

[25] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
younger  man  had  ever  earned  his  bread  in  the 
sweat  of  his  brow,  or  in  any  shape  or  form,  the 
two  old  men  had  never  been  witnesses  of  the 
performance.  Many  and  many  a  time  they 
had  criticised  him  up  and  down,  and  heaved 
heavy  sighs  over  the  fact  that,  although  he  had 
been  given  food  and  raiment  and  shelter  by  the 
dead  man  for  many  long  years,  he  had  never 
turned  his  hand  to  any  useful  employment  so 
far  as  they  knew.  He  had  come  into  the  house 
a  dependent  without  resources,  and  a  de 
pendent  he  had  remained,  in  spite  of  his 
acknowledged  gifts. 

And  now,  when  the  two  old  men  looked  at 
each  other  and  shook  their  heads,  each  knew 
what  the  other  meant,  and  so,  for  that  matter, 
did  the  younger  man.  But  it  was  not  a  part 
of  his  policy,  nor  did  it  run  with  his  desire,  to 
resent  their  attitude  toward  him.  He  had  no 
feeling  against  them;  he  was  supremely  indif 
ferent  to  their  opinions;  so  much  so,  that  if  they 
entered  into  his  thoughts  at  all,  he  found 
amusement  in  contemplating  them.  The  two 

[26] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

old  men,  however,  mistook  his  indifference  for 
contempt,  and  to  that  extent  did  him  injustice. 

All  day  long  the  house  had  been  crowded 
with  callers,  strangers  from  a  distance,  rela 
tives,  admirers,  and  those  who  take  a  curious 
interest  in  everything  that  pertains  to  death 
and  the  grave.  And  numbers  of  telegrams  had 
come,  messages  of  sympathy  and  condolence 
from  distinguished  men  in  all  parts  of  the 
South,  addressed  to  Emily  Featherstone,  the 
daughter  of  the  dead  man.  Many  of  those 
who  had  called  were  old  friends  and  neighbors, 
and  they  had  volunteered  to  remain  and  watch 
with  the  dead;  but  they  were  given  to  under 
stand  that  all  the  necessary  arrangements  had 
been  made,  that  the  watchers  were  to  consist 
of  the  two  old  men  who  had  been  in  the  dead 
man's  employ  for  a  long  time,  and  the  young 
man  who  had  been  his  constant  companion  for 
so  many  years. 

Neither  of  the  two  old  men  made  any  pre 
tence  of  deep  grief  as  they  sat  with  the  dead. 
They  had  arrived  at  a  time  of  life  when  Philos- 
[27] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

ophy,  seated  in  the  chair  of  Experience,  closes 
with  a  firm  hand  the  fountain  of  sorrow,  and  ad 
monishes  mourners  to  be  temperate  with  their 
tears,  since  they  know  not  for  whom  they  will 
weep  on  the  morrow.  They  had  come  to 
know  that  all  events,  the  accidents  that  bereave 
and  the  maladies  that  slowly  consume,  are  alike 
timely  and  providential. 

As  for  Mr.  Billy  Spence,  if  he  did  not  realize 
that  he  had  been  left  in  a  peculiar,  not  to  say 
painful,  predicament,  the  old  men  realized  it 
for  him,  and  they  regarded  him  furtively  now 
and  then  with  that  curious  lack  of  sympathy 
that  sometimes  manifests  itself  in  those  who  are 
old  enough  to  know  that  sympathy  can  heal  no 
wounds  and  mend  no  broken  bones.  The  po 
sition  that  Billy  Spence  had  occupied  was 
forced  on  him  by  events  and  circumstances 
which  he  had  made  no  effort  to  change.  He 
was,  indeed,  left  in  a  pitiable  plight,  but  such 
was  his  temperament  that  he  had  no  regrets. 
He  had  devoted  his  high  talents  to  promoting 
the  interests  and  reputation  of  his  dead  friend, 

[28] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

and  now,  at  thirty-six,  he  was  brought  face  to 
face  with  a  most  painful  contingency.  Yet  he 
had  not  a  thought  for  himself;  his  chief  concern 
was  the  daughter.  He  had  witnessed  her  grief 
with  a  sinking  heart,  and  his  quick  imagination, 
looking  forward  in  the  future,  beheld  her  lonely 
and  forlorn. 

Emily  was  now  twenty-four,  and  though  she 
had  had  suitors  by  the  score,  she  had  turned 
them  away  one  by  one.  When  Billy  was 
younger,  the  popularity  of  the  girl,  and  the  in 
nocent  pleasure  she  took  in  social  affairs,  had 
given  him  many  a  secret  pang,  but  now  he  re 
gretted — though  the  possibility  still  gave  him 
a  pang — that  she  had  not  married  one  of  the 
worthy  young  men  who  had  so  assiduously 
sought  her  hand. 

While  Mr.  Spence  was  busy  with  his  futile 
thoughts  he  heard  the  tinkling  of  glasses  in  the 
dining-room.  The  two  old  men  also  heard  it, 
and  looked  at  each  other  with  mutual  smiles 
of  anticipation.  Presently  Uncle  Ishmael,  who 
for  long  years  had  been  the  body-servant  of  the 
[29] 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

dead  man,  came  into  the  room  bearing  a  small 
waiter  on  which  were  three  glasses  containing 
whiskey  and  sugar  and  water.  The  two  old 
men  took  theirs  without  a  word,  but  Mr. 
Spence  waved  away  the  one  intended  for  him. 
"  Drink  it  yourself,  Ishmael,"  he  said;  "  you 
need  it  worse  than  I  do." 

"  Plenty  mo'  whar  dis  come  fum,  Marse 
Billy/'  Uncle  Ishmael  remarked.  Then,  plac 
ing  the  waiter  on  the  mantel,  he  went  to  the 
side  of  the  dead  man  and  lifted  the  sheet.  For 
some  moments  the  old  negro  stood  gazing  at 
the  face  of  him  who  had  not  only  been  his  mas 
ter  but  his  friend.  Uncle  Ishmael's  counte 
nance  cleared  as  he  gazed,  and  he  turned  to 
Mr.  Spence  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  "  Marse 
Billy,"  he  said,  "  he  look  like  he  ain't  more'n 
forty  year  ol'.  Des  ez  you  see  'im  now,  dat  de 
way  he  look  when  you  fust  come  on  de  place. 
It  sho  put  me  in  min'  er  ol'  times." 

Billy  Spence  leaned  forward  a  little  and 
studied  the  face  of  his  friend.  Death  had  ob 
literated  the  perplexed  frown  and  smoothed 

[30] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

away  the  wrinkles,  and  it  seemed  that  a  faint 
smile  was  hovering  around  the  firm  mouth. 
Mr.  Spence  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity 
to  stroke  the  gray  hair  that  clustered  thickly 
about  the  dead  man's  forehead,  and  there  was 
something  in  the  gentle  movements  of  his  hand 
so  suggestive  of  grief  and  tenderness  that  the 
daughter,  who  was  at  that  moment  entering 
the  room,  paused  on  the  threshold,  caught  her 
breath,  and  threw  her  hand  to  her  throat  with 
a  gesture  of  despair. 

Mr.  Spence  turned  as  the  two  old  men  gave 
her  greeting.  Somehow,  her  beauty  always 
gave  him  a  pang,  and  she  was  more  beautiful 
now,  in  her  grief,  than  she  had  ever  been.  "  Is 
this  the  best  place  for  you,  Emily?  "  he  asked. 
The  tenderest  solicitude  betrayed  itself  in  his 
voice  and  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  My 
mind  is  in  such  a  whirl  that  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  or  where  to  go." 

"  Where  is  your  aunt?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Fast  asleep,"  she  replied. 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  Then 
you  had  best  sit  here,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  will  lie  on  the  sofa  in  the  next  room, 
where  I  can  hear  your  voices.  I  have  been 
looking  over  my  father's  papers,"  she  went  on, 
turning  her  melancholy  eyes  on  Mr.  Spence, 
"  and  the  discoveries  I  have  made  have  upset 
me.  Oh,  why,  sir,  have  you  kept  me  in  the 
dark?  Why  have  you  deceived  me?  "  She 
advanced  a  step  toward  Mr.  Spence  with  an 
appealing  gesture.  "  It  was  cruel — oh,  cruel ! 
— to  permit  me  to  go  on  for  so  many  years 
without  some  hint  or  intimation.  Why,  you 
told  me  once — a  long  time  ago — you  told 
me " 

She  paused  and  looked  at  Mr.  Spence.  He 
sat  with  his  head  bowed,  his  hands  over  his 
face.  His  whole  attitude  was  one  of  shame. 
"  I  would  have  spared  you,"  he  said,  "  but  you 
would  not  be  spared.  I  begged  you  to  leave 
everything  to  me — but  you  would  not.  Did 
you  break  the  lock?  " 

"  No,  sir;  I  saw  where  you  placed  the  key. 

[32] 


fke  Makwg  of  a  Statesman 
Oh,  I  was  compelled  to  do  something,  and  I 
did  that.     Oh,  sir,  how  could  you  deceive  me 
so?" 

"  I  deceive  you,  Emily? "  He  raised  his 
head  and  looked  at  her. 

"  No,  sir,  you  did  not,"  she  said  impulsively," 
after  a  pause.  "  Oh,  you  have  forgiven  me  in 
many  things,  and  you  must  forgive  me  in  this. 
But  we — I  thought  everything  was  so  different 
from  what  it  is."  Mr.  Spence's  head  fell  lower. 
"  You  needn't  be  ashamed,  sir.  It  is  I — oh,  I 
shall  look  at  everything  differently  after  a 
while." 

"  You  have  been  asleep,  Emily,  and  have  had 
a  bad  dream,"  said  Mr.  Spence,  rising  from  his 
seat.  "  Come  into  the  next  room  and  rest 
upon  the  sofa.  Ishmael,  fetch  a  shawl  for  your 
Miss  Emily;  she  will  need  it  over  her  feet." 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  she  permitted 
him  to  lead  her  from  the  room  with  a  submis- 
siveness  that  sent  a  thrill  all  through  him.  But 
she  continued  to  talk  about  the  discovery  she 
had  made  while  looking  over  her  father's 
papers. 

[33] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Does  anyone  else  know?  "  the  two  old  men 
heard  her  ask,  but  they  could  not  hear  the  re 
ply,  though  they  strained  their  time-worn  ears 
to  the  utmost.  They  looked  at  each  other  and 
shook  their  heads  solemnly.  Whatever  it  was, 
it  must  surely  be  a  pretty  come-off. 

"  What  you  reckon  she's  found  out?  "  asked 
one  in  a  stage-whisper. 

"  The  Lord  only  knows,"  replied  the  other, 
"  but  it's  upsot  her  might'ly.  Maybe  Billy's 
been  up  to  some  sort  of  devilment  about  the 
prop'ty." 

"No,  no;  not  that,"  declared  the  first  old 
man.  "  I  never  seed  a  livin'  human  bein'  wuss 
tuck  down  than  she  'pears  to  be.  Did  you  take 
notice  how  she  '  sir'd  '  him?  " 

"  I  most  shorely  did,"  assented  the  other, 
"  an'  it  mighty  nigh  tuck  away  what  little 
breath  I've  got  left.  The  last  time  I  seed  her 
talkin'  to  Billy,  she  had  on  her  high  an'  mighty 
airs — but  that  was  before  Meredith  went  to  his 
long  home." 

"  Well,  it's  clean  beyand  me,"  said  the  first 
[34] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

old  man,  still  whispering.  "  He  looked  like  he 
was  ashamed  of  sump'n,  an*  she  done  like  she's 
willin'  for  to  rub  the  dust  ofFn  his  boots." 

And  so  she  was.  In  her  young  girlhood  she 
thought  there  was  no  one  like  Cousin  Billy,  and 
when  she  grew  older  she  found  herself  in  love 
with  him.  Then,  later,  in  self-defence,  as  it 
were,  she  felt  compelled  to  treat  him  with  con 
temptuous  indifference.  She  fell  in  with  the 
general  opinion  that  he  was  a  ne'er-do-well, 
who  was  too  lazy  to  turn  his  remarkable  talents 
to  account.  He  fretted  her  in  various  ways; 
but  try  as  she  would,  she  could  never  make  him 
angry.  She  was  rude  to  him;  she  flouted  him 
in  a  hundred  cruel  ways  possible  only  to  the 
gentle  sex.  At  times  she  made  him  fetch  and 
carry  for  her  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  the  ser 
vants;  and  then  there  would  be  long  periods 
during  which  she  ignored  his  very  existence. 
He  was  responsive  to  her  every  wish,  and  paid 
no  heed  whatever  to  her  changing  moods. 

She  even  had  it  against  him  that  he  had  pre 
vented  her  from  marrying ;  and  it  was  true  that 

[35] 


<fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 
whenever  some  lover  came  a-wooing,  Billy's 
face,  with  its  patient  smile,  rose  before  her  imr 
agination — and  there  was  no  other  lover  for 
her.     But  now 


[36] 


77 

TTJ^MILY  was,  indeed,  in  the  depths  of  hu- 
Ay  miliation.  At  first,  when  she  came  to 
~~  look  over  her  father's  papers,  she  could 
hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  her  own  senses. 
He  had  preserved  every  scrap,  apparently  with 
miserly  care,  and  they  filled  a  huge  oak  chest 
that  had  once  been  used  as  a  clothes-press.  Of 
all  the  papers  that  Emily  had  the  courage  to 
look  through,  not  one  was  in  the  handwriting 
of  her  father.  Here  were  all  his  speeches,  care 
fully  written  out  and  labelled.  Accompanying 
each  was  a  complete  memorandum  of  direc 
tions,  in  addition  to  the  copious  side  and  foot 
notes  in  the  manuscript.  Everything  was  set 
forth  with  the  most  painful  particularity. 
Here,  indeed,  were  the  evidences  of  a  success 
ful  school  of  oratory,  and  in  the  handwriting 
Billy  Spence,  the  dependent,  stood  confessed 
[37] 


'fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 
as  the  teacher.  Here  was  the  raw  and  the  re 
fined  material,  and  it  was  Billy's  mind,  Billy's 
brains,  that  had  carried  Meredith  Featherstone 
through  the  shoals,  the  shallows,  the  shifting 
sands,  and  the  deep  waters  of  statesmanship. 

At  first,  and  for  some  time,  Emily  felt  that 
she  had  been  cruelly  deceived  and  cheated. 
Then  when  the  shock  of  her  discovery  had 
somewhat  subsided,  she  began  to  realize  the 
nature  of  the  sacrifice  that  Billy  Spence  had 
made.  She  began  to  perceive  the  real  extent 
of  the  unselfish  devotion  he  had  shown  in  ob 
literating  his  own  individuality,  and  in  putting 
his  own  ambitions  aside.  There  must  have 
been,  there  must  be,  she  thought,  some  good 
and  sufficent  reason  for  this  unheard-of  sacri 
fice.  What  was  it?  She  went  from  the  library 
straight  to  the  room  where  her  father  lay.  As 
she  came  to  the  door,  she  saw  Billy  Spence  ten 
derly  smoothing  the  dead  man's  hair.  The 
sight  drove  out  of  her  mind  the  questions  she 
had  framed,  and,  womanlike,  she  fell  back 
weakly  on  the  idea  that  she  had  been  deceived. 

[38] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

It  is  woman's  way  to  hark  back  to  first  impres 
sions. 

But  when  she  and  Mr.  Spence  were  out  of 
hearing  of  the  two  old  men,  the  great  question 
recurred  to  her — Why  had  he  surrendered  his 
own  career  to  make  one  possible  for  her  father? 
Never  before  had  a  man,  and  a  young  man  at 
that,  done  himself  such  gross,  such  unnecessary 
injustice.  He  had  received  no  salary,  and  his 
very  clothes  were  shabby.  Womanlike,  she  ac 
companied  the  inquiry  with  a  running  fire  of 
comment. 

He  stood  before  her  with  his  head  bent.  "  I 
have  had  my  compensations,  Emily,"  he  said. 

"  What  were  they? "  she  cried,  her  sobs 
choking  her. 

"  Your  mother  was  kind  to  me  to  the  day  of 
her  death;  and  there  have  been  times,  even  of 
late,  Emily,  when  you  were  kind.  Was  there 
not  compensation  in  this?  " 

In  her  agony  of  mind  she  could  have  grov 
elled  at  his  feet;  but  instead,  she  fell  on  the  sofa 
and  beat  it  wildly  with  her  hands. 
[39] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
"  You  are  taking  it  too  seriously,  Emily," 
he  said,  when  her  inarticulate  cries  had  ceased. 
"  I  would  do  it  all  over  again  with  a  happy 
heart  if  I  could  bring  back  the  old  times  and 
all  who  were  here  then.  Your  mother  wanted 
your  father  to  become  a  distinguished  man;  so 
did  you.  And  after  he  had  entered  upon  that 
first  campaign,  we  could  not  retrace  our  steps. 
Don't  you  see  how  impossible  it  was?  Your 
father  regretted  it  a  great  deal  worse  than  I 
did;  it  was  a  terrible  burden  to  him  from  the 
first.  Let  your  condemnation  fall  on  me,  and 
not  on  his  memory.  I  am  the  dishonest  one." 
Once  more  she  began  to  beat  wildly  on  the 
cushions  of  the  sofa,  crying:  "And  I  have 
been  unkind  to  you!  O  heaven!  have  mercy 
on  me!  Have  mercy!  " 

He  said  no  more,  but  stood  watching  her, 
grieving  because  of  her  grief,  his  whole  being 
inflamed  with  love  and  pity  for  her.  She  grew 
quieter  after  a  while,  and  finally  rose  from  the 
sofa.  Pausing  for  one  brief  instant,  as  though 
to  collect  her  confused  and  scattered  wits,  she 
[40] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

went  into  the  room  where  the  two  old  men 
were  sitting  with  the  dead. 

"  Mr.  Weaver,"  she  said,  "  it  is  now  past 
midnight,  and  you  and  Mr.  Tuttle  will  need 
some  rest.  My  aunt  will  be  down  directly,  and 
she  and  Mr.  Spence  " — it  was  the  first  time 
they  had  ever  heard  her  call  him  so — "  will  sit 
up  the  rest  of  the  night." 

This  information  would  have  been  very  wel 
come  to  the  old  men  if  their  curiosity  had  not 
been  aroused,  for  they  were  already  beginning 
to  feel  the  effects  of  the  unaccustomed  vigil; 
but  they  protested  that  they  never  felt  wider 
awake  in  all  their  lives. 

Emily  insisted,  however,  and  they  finally 
yielded.  As  they  went  along  the  walk  to  the 
gate,  Mr.  Weaver  nudged  Mr.  Tuttle,  and 
pointed  over  his  shoulder  with  his  thumb. 
"  It's  jest  like  I  tell  you/'  he  declared.  "  Billy's 
been  up  to  some  kind  of  devilment,  an'  Em'ly 
wants  a  chance  for  to  rake  him  over  the  coals. 
I  wouldn't  like  to  be  in  Billy's  shoes,  be  jinged 
ef  I  would!" 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  She  ain't  dumb  when  she's  in  a  tantrum, 
Em'ly  ain't,"  remarked  Mr.  Tuttle. 

"  No,  Brother  Tuttle,  none  on  'em  ain't 
dumb,  contrive  'em!  but  Em'ly  has  got  lan 
guage  enough  for  the  whole  settlement.  By 
jacks  ef  she  ain't!  " 

The  two  old  men  toddled  on  home,  glad  of 
the  timely  release  from  a  vigil  that  had  already 
begun  to  weigh  heavily  on  their  eyelids,  yet 
burning  with  curiosity  to  know  what  Billy,  the 
dependent,  had  been  doing  to  excite  the  ire  of 
Miss  Featherstone.  Though  their  curiosity 
was  not  appeased,  they  chuckled  at  the  idea 
that  this  man,  who  stood  in  their  eyes  as  a  vag 
abond  and  a  loafer,  had  at  last  been  found  out. 

Emily  seated  herself  near  the  fireplace,  and 
Billy  Spence  sat  on  the  opposite  side.  She 
kept  her  eyes  on  his  face,  but  never  once  did 
he  look  at  her.  On  the  contrary,  he  gazed  at 
the  flickering  flames  on  the  hearth  and  on  the 
queer  shadows  that  they  cast.  Finally  she 
spoke. 

"  Has  any  provision  been  made  for  you  in 
father's  will? " 

[42] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  None  whatever,"  he  replied. 

"  I  should  have  thought  after — after  all  you 
have  done " 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  your  father,  Emily. 
It  was  his  purpose,  his  desire  to  leave  me  some 
thing.  But  I  convinced  him  that  a  bequest  to 
me  would  create  talk  and  arouse  suspicion. 
Why,  suppose  that  you  had  gone  on  in  igno 
rance  of  what  you  have  found  out — what 
would  your  feelings  have  been  if  I  had  come 
in  for  a  share — even  the  smallest — of  the 
property  here?  " 

"  I  should  have  resented  it/'  she  frankly  ad 
mitted.  "  But  now " 

"  Most  certainly  you  would,"  he  said.  "  But 
now  you  have  nothing  to  resent,  and  I  have 
nothing  to  regret." 

"  But  now,"  she  persisted — she  was  a  young 
woman  hard  to  put  down — "  the  property  is 
mine,  and  I  can  do  what  I  please  with  my  own." 

He  divined — or  thought  he  did — the  propo 
sition  she  was  leading  up  to,  and  he  rose  from 
his  chair,  his  face  very  red  at  first,  and  then 
[43] 


*fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 
suddenly  pale.  "  Emily,  your  contempt  for 
me  has  been  a  burden  hard  to  bear,  but  I  have 
borne  it.  Through  it  all  I  have  never  had  one 
unkind  thought  of  you.  With  the  lights  be 
fore  you,  you  were  entirely  justifiable.  But  I 
beg  you  to  refrain  from  grinding  me  into  the 
dust.  Say  no  more  about  property.  In  the 
course  of  a  very  few  days  I  shall  cease  to  annoy 
you." 

"You  know  that  you  do  not  annoy  me,"  she 
said  very  quietly.  "  What  do  you  propose  to 
do?" 

He  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  stood  leaning 
against  the  high  mantel,  gazing  into  the  fire. 

"You  are  to  remain  here,"  she  went  on; 
"  you  are  to  remain  here  just  as  though  noth 
ing  had  happened."  Still  he  made  no  reply. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  mind  was  concerned  with 
matters  and  things  far  beyond  her  comprehen 
sion.  "  I  said  you  were  to  remain  here,"  she 
insisted. 

"  I  heard  you,  Emily,"  he  made  answer. 
Her  declaration  brought  a  rosy  glow  to  her 
[44] 


<fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

face,  but  Billy  Spence  paid  as  little  attention  to 
the  blush  as  he  did  to  her  words.  He  was 
wondering  where  and  how  he  should  begin  life 
again.  He  moved  away  from  the  fireplace, 
and  began  to  pace  slowly  up  and  down  the 
room.  Emily,  for  her  part,  leaned  back  in 
her  chair  and  closed  her  eyes,  while  Uncle 
Ishmael  in  the  next  room  sat  and  nodded. 

Some  weeks  after  the  funeral  of  Meredith 
Featherstone,  the  household  suddenly  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  Billy  Spence  had  disappeared. 
The  man's  habits,  developed  during  the  long 
period  when  he  was  engaged  in  initiating  his 
friend  and  patron  in  the  arts  and  methods  of 
what  is  loosely  called  statesmanship,  were  very 
irregular.  He  frequently  turned  night  into 
day;  and  there  had  been  seasons,  as,  for  in 
stance,  in  the  midst  of  a  warm  campaign,, 
when  he  would  lock  himself  in  for  days  at  a 
time,  depending  on  Uncle  Ishmael  to  keep  him 
supplied  with  coffee,  of  which  he  consumed 
large  quantities,  rejecting,  for  the  most  part,  all 
substantial  food.  At  the  end  of  such  a  period 
[451 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

Mr.  Spence  would  issue  forth  from  his  room 
pale,  haggard,  and  hollow-eyed,  a  condition 
that  set  afoot  the  rumor,  believed  by  all  the 
household,  save  the  master  and  Uncle  Ishmael, 
that  he  had  locked  himself  in  to  enjoy  a  spree. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  habits  of  Mr. 
Spence  grew  regular  in  their  irregularity.  If 
he  was  missing,  no  one  asked  after  him,  the 
supposition  being  that  he  would  make  his  ap 
pearance  in  a  few  days,  somewhat  the  worse  for 
wear.  So  now,  when  he  disappeared  shortly 
after  the  funeral,  the  members  of  the  household 
supposed  that  he  was  locked  in  his  room. 
Uncle  Ishmael,  for  the  first  day  or  so,  did  as  he 
had  been  doing  all  along.  Morning,  noon,  and 
night  he  placed  a  pot  of  coffee,  with  biscuit  and 
butter,  on  a  chair,  tapped  lightly  on  the  door, 
as  a  signal  that  the  food  was  there,  and  went  his 
way. 

But  presently  the  old  negro  discovered  that 
Mr.  Spence  was  not  drinking  the  coffee  nor 
eating  the  food  he  carried  up,  and  then  he  be 
gan  to  investigate.  He  knocked  on  the  door 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

loudly,  but  received  no  answer.  He  knocked 
again  and  again,  but  the  result  was  the  same. 
Then  he  tried  the  bolt,  and  the  door  opened  at 
his  push,  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  that 
Uncle  Ishmael  was  within  one  of  falling. 
Everything  about  the  room  was  in  order  and 
in  place,  with  the  exception  of  the  few  belong 
ings  of  Mr.  Spence.  These  were  gone,  and  so 
was  their  owner.  When  the  old  negro  realized 
this,  which  he  was  not  slow  to  do,  he  drew  a 
long  breath  and  shook  his  head,  for  he  was  very 
fond  of  his  Marse  Billy,  as  he  called  him. 

Uncle  Ishmael  reflected  for  some  little  time, 
uttering  his  thoughts  aloud.  "  He  gone!  he 
sho  is  gone!  An'  ef  dey  don't  keep  a  mighty 
close  eye  on  Ishmael,  he'll  be  gone,  too.  It 
wuz  bad  nuff  fer  marster  ter  go ;  but  wid  Marse 
Billy  gone,  dey  won't  be  no  livin'  on  de  place." 
He  looked  around  the  room  and  shook  his 
head  again.  "  I  know'd  it;  I  know'd  it  mighty 
well.  Trouble  is  got  a  mighty  sight  er  kin- 
folks,  an'  when  one  come  an'  set  down  in  de 
house,  you  better  make  room  for  de  rest.  Ef 

I  had  my  way " 

[47] 


°fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

Uncle  Ishmael  was  going  on  to  say  that  if 
he  had  his  way  he  would  scour  the  country 
until  he  found  Billy  Spence,  but  he  was  inter 
rupted.  He  heard  his  Miss  Emily  calling  him. 
She  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  stair-landing. 

"Uncle  Ishmael!  Uncle  Ishmael!  " 

"  Here  me,  Miss  Em'ly,"  he  answered,  step 
ping  out  into  the  passage. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Spence  I'd  like  to  speak  with  him 
a  moment  if  he's  not  too  busy." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  ma'am,"  replied  the  old 
negro;  "  I  wish  ter  de  Lord  I  could!  I'd  tell 
'im  so  quick  it'd  make  yo'  head  swim." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  He  ain't  here,  Miss  Em'ly;  an'  ef  I  didn't 
know  better,  nobody  couldn't  make  me  b'lieve 
dat  he  been  here  sence  year  'fo'  las'." 

"  Why,  I  heard  you  talking  to  him,"  Emily 
insisted.  She  came  forward  and  went  into 
the  room,  Uncle  Ishmael  following  her.  "  I 
thought  I  heard  his  voice,"  she  said,  turning 
to  the  old  negro. 

"  Twuz  in  yo'  min',  honey,  not  in  de  room," 
he  answered. 

[48] 


'fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  heard  you  talking." 

"  Yassum,  you  did.  I  wuz  makin'  a  speech. 
It  look  like  it  run  in  de  fambly  fer  ter  make 
speeches."  If  he  noticed  how  red  her  face 
turned  at  the  allusion,  he  ignored  it.  "  Look 
at  dat  room,"  he  went  on;  "  look  at  de  places 
whar  he  hung  up  his  cloze,  sech  ez  he  had,  an* 
whar  he  uster  set  his  shoes,  an'  whar  he  kep' 
his  kyarpit-sack!  Look  at  um,  honey,  an'  try 
ter  foller  in  yo'  min'  whar  he  gone.  Talk  'bout 
niggers!  Ef  Marse  Billy  Spence  ain't  wuss  off 
dan  any  nigger  in  de  Ian'  you  kin  take  my  head 
fer  a  ban'-box.  In  de  name  er  de  Lord,  what  is 
de  man  got?  He  ain't  got  nuff  cloze  fer  ter 
las'  'im  fum  here  to  town,  an'  in  all  de  time  he 
been  here  he  ain't  had  but  two  frien's  in  de  worF 
- — des  two.  Marster  wuz  one  on  um." 

"  Who  was  the  other?  "  Emily  asked.  Her 
face  was  very  pale  now,  and  it  was  plain  that  she 
was  suffering  mentally. 

"  No  needs  fer  ter  call  his  name,"  replied 
Uncle  Ishmael.  "  He  ain't  nothin'  but  a  nig 
ger — a  nasty,  no-'count  ol'  nigger.  Ef  he  wuz 

[49] 


'fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

any  'count,  he'd  be  wid  Marse  Billy  right  now. 
Marster  done  gone,  an'  Marse  Billy  Spence 
done  make  his  disappearance.  Much  good  his 
nigger  frien'll  do  him!  Yit  he  ain't  got  no 
yuther." 

"  What  you  say  is  simply  not  true,  and  you 
know  it!  "  cried  Emily.  Her  indignation — she 
thought  it  was  indignation — was  so  great  that 
she  could  hardly  control  her  voice.  She  swept 
out  of  the  room  with  great  dignity,  and  went 
to  her  own.  Whether  she  fell  into  a  fit  of 
weeping  or  delayed  to  bite  her  finger-nails,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say. 

It  is  sufficient  to  know  that  while  Uncle 
Ishmael  was  still  chuckling  over  the  fact  that 
he  had  stirred  the  feelings  of  his  young  mis 
tress,  she  reappeared  in  the  passageway,  fully 
equipped  for  an  out-door  expedition. 

"  Uncle  Ishmael,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to 
take  one  of  the  carriage-horses,  and  find  out,  if 
you  can,  which  way  Mr.  Spence  went.  He 
may  be  wandering  in  the  woods  for  all  we 
know.  Don't  waste  any  time,  and  don't  wait ; 
go  now,  and  go  in  a  hurry." 
[50] 


tfhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Miss  Em'ly,  you  sholy  ain't  gwine  out  no- 
whar,  is  you?  "  inquired  Uncle  Ishmael  with 
some  solicitude.  "  Kaze  I  hear  Miss  Kitty  " 
— this  was  the  aunt — "  say  p'intedly  dat  you 
can't  go  nowhar  inside  of  a  mont'  er  sech  a  mat 
ter.  She  say  ef  you  does,  folks'll  do  some 
mighty  talkin'." 

"  Let  them  talk.  I  am  going  to  ask  the  ad 
vice  of  Major  Perdue "  She  paused  and 

looked  at  the  floor,  reflecting.  Then  sudden 
ly:  "  No,  I  am  not.  Go  find  Aunt  Minervy 
Ann,  and  tell  her  I  want  to  see  her.  Tell  her 
to  come  at  once  if  she  can." 

"  You  sho  is  sayin'  sump'n  now,  Miss  Em'ly. 
Dey  ain't  no  love  lost  'twix'  me  an'  dat  nigger 
'oman — her  tongue  too  long  an'  too  loud  fer 
me — but  dey  can't  nothin'  happen  dat  she 
don't  know  it.  She  wuz  here  de  night  we-all 
wuz  settin'  up  wid  marster,  an'  she  wanter 
come  in,  but  I  'lowed  dat  you  don't  wanter 
be  'sturbed." 

"  Well,  you  had  no  business  to  say  anything 
of  the  kind.  I  am  always  willing  to  see  Aunt 
Minervy  Ann.  Go  and  find  her." 


cThe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  No  needs  fer  ter  hunt  much,  ma'am.  She 
one  er  de  kind  dat  ain't  never  been  lost."  This 
was  so  true  that,  as  Uncle  Ishmael  went  out  at 
the  front  gate,  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  came  in  at 
the  rear,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Emily,  up 
stairs,  heard  her  wandering  from  room  to  room, 
talking  to  herself. 

"  Dis  is  what  I  calls  housekeepin',  myse'f," 
she  was  saying.  "  Not  a  nigger  on  de  place 
fer  ter  keep  folks  fum  walkin'  in  an'  totin' 
eve'ything  off.  Whar  ol'  Ish?  I  bet  you  de 
ol1  hoodoo  is  settin'  in  some  sunny  place,  chock 
full  er  dram,  an'  fast  asleep.  I  wish  he  stayed 
up  town  dar,  whar  Marse  Tumlin  could  git  a 
chance  ter  fling  a  hatful  er  cuss-words  at  'im 
once  er  twice  a  day.  Howdy,  Miss  Em'ly? 
How  you  feelin',  honey?  "  This  as  the  young 
woman,  robed  in  black,  came  wearily  down 
stairs.  "  But  I  nee'n't  ter  ax  you  dat,  kaze 
you  ain't  lookin'  well  a  bit,  not  one  bit !  Well, 
honey,  time  you  see  ez  much  trouble  ez  ol' 
Minervy  Ann,  you  won't  droop  much  when  it 
hit  you.  You'll  be  case-hardened;  yes'm,  dat's 
[52] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

de  word — case-hardened.  I  laid  off  fer  ter 
come  out  here  yistiddy  an'  de  day  befo',  but 
Marse  Bollivar  Blasengame's  cook  tuck'n  run'd 
off,  an'  Marse  Tumlin  had  de  fidgets.  Dey 
sho  had  me  gwine! " 

Aunt  Minervy  Ann  paused  and  gazed  hard 
at  the  young  woman  with  an  inscrutable  ex 
pression  in  her  face.  Resuming,  she  spoke  in 
a  low,  confidential  tone.  "  Honey,  dey's  a 
mighty  quile  " — she  meant  coil — "  'roun'  here 
some'rs;  I  dunner  'zackly  what  'tis,  an'  I  dun- 
ner  whar  'tis,  but  it's  sho  is  some'rs  close  aroun'. 
I  want  ter  ax  you  dis — how  come  you-all 
ter  drive  Billy  Spence  off?  What  he  been 
doin'?" 

"  Drive  him  off!  Why,  what  do  you  mean?  " 
She  seated  herself.  Ordinarily,  Aunt  Minervy 
Ann  would  have  flopped  down  on  the  floor  by 
the  side  of  a  chair  or  a  sofa,  but  now  she  re 
mained  standing. 

"  Billy  Spence  is  gone,  ain't  he?  "  the  negro 
woman  asked.  "  He  ain't  here,  is  he?  Now, 
honey,  you  know  des  ez  well  ez  I  does  dat 
[53] 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

Billy  Spence  wouldn't  'a'  gone  'way  fum  here 
less'n  he  wuz  driv  off.  Ef  you  don't  know  it, 
I  know  it;  I  know  it  by  de  way  he  use'  ter  talk 
ter  me." 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  he  was  gone  until  a 
few  minutes  ago,  and  I'm  not  sure  of  it  even 
now.  I — all  of  us — wanted  him  to  stay  here. 
He  has  no  other  home  to  go  to." 

"  Ain't  it  de  trufe!  Ain't  it  de  Lord's  trufe!  " 
exclaimed  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  with  unction. 
"  An'  you  ain't  know  he  wuz  gone  tell  des  now! 
Well,  dat's  one  er  de  reasons  he's  gone,  an'  the 
main  reason — an'  I  don't  blame  him.  I  know'd 
he  wuz  gone  day  'fo'  yistiddy,  er  maybe  de  day 
'fo'  dat.  I  seed  him  gwine  'long  de  road,  an* 
he  wave  his  han'  at  me.  He  had  a  ol'  kyarpit- 
bag  dat  look  like  it  come  out  er  de  ark — ef  he'd 
V  shuck  it  right  hard  it'd  'a'  fell  ter  pieces — an' 
he  wuz  walkin';  walkin'  wid  holes  in  his  shoes 
dat  you  could  put  yo'  finger  in. 

"  Maybe  I'm  de  biggest  fool  in  de  worl'," 
Aunt  Minervy  Ann  went  on,  "  but  when  I  seed 
'im  gwine  off  like  dat  I  could  a  fit  a  cow-pen 
[54] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

full  er  wild-cats — yes'm,  wild-cats.  I  speck  I 
know'd  Billy  Spence  better'n  anybody  else  did. 
I  seed  long  ago — sence  Miss  Ma'y  Lou  died — 
how  he  wuz  gwine  ter  rack,  an*  I  done  his 
washin'  fer  'im,  an'  I  done  his  mendin'.  In  all 
dis  roun'  woiT,  honey,  dey  ain't  never  been  no 
lonesomer  white  man  dan  dat — an'  he  ain't  no 
lonesomer  now,  wharsomever  he  is — dan  what 
he  had  been  all  de  time." 

Seeing  that  the  young  woman  was  not  dis 
posed  to  show  any  temper,  though  she  had 
enough  and  to  spare,  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  al 
lowed  her  own  feathers  to  fall,  as  the  saying  is. 
She  went  closer  to  the  young  woman. 

"  Honey,  how  come  you  ter  let  'im  go?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  didn't  know  he  was  gone  until 
a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  Couldn't  you  'a'  helt  out  yo'  han'  ter  de 
man?  Honey,  you  dunner  what  you  done 
th'ow'd  away.  Why,  dat  man — but  ne'r  min' 
'bout  dat;  'tain't  none  er  my  business." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  and  tell  me  he  was 
gone?  "  asked  Emily,  helplessly. 
[55] 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"Who — me?  Why,  honey,  I  wuz  too  mad. 
Ef  I'd  'a'  come  in  dis  house  dat  day,  you'd  'a* 
had  ter  call  in  folks  ter  gag  me  fer  ter  keep  me 
fum  hurtin'  yo'  feelin's." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  he  has  gone?  " 

"  De  woiT  is  wide,  honey,  an'  he  had  it  all 
befo'  'im,  but  when  I  seed  'im  last  he  wuz  gwine 
'long  down  de  Hillsborough  road." 

"  He  was  born  there,"  said  Emily. 

"  Yes'm,  I  know  dat,  but  he  been  'way  fum 
dar  so  long  dat  all  dem  what  used  ter  know  him 
done  fergot  dat  he's  on  top  er  de  groun'." 

Whether  it  was  the  homing  instinct,  or  a 
mere  accident  of  his  miserable  condition,  Billy 
Spence  had  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of 
Hillsborough.  He  got  along  well  enough  the 
first  ten  miles,  but  after  that  his  energy  seemed 
to  leave  him,  and  he  walked  along  in  a  dazed 
condition.  When  he  sat  down  to  rest,  he  found 
it  very  difficult  to  start  again.  Occasionally 
he  was  shaken  by  rigors,  and,  finally,  a  desire  to 
sleep  overcame  him  —  a  desire  that  Nature 
would  not  permit  him  to  resist.  He  found 
[56] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

what  he  thought  was  a  soft  place  in  a  fence- 
corner,  and  stretched  himself  upon  the  grass 
with  a  sigh. 

The  clouds  which  had  been  gathering  for 
some  time  finally  found  themselves  in  a  condi 
tion  to  bestow  some  of  their  moisture  on  old 
mother  earth,  and  this  they  proceeded  to  do. 
They  gave  forth  a  fine  drizzle  that  filtered  down 
on  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and,  incidentally, 
on  poor  Billy  Spence.  But  it  made  no  differ 
ence  to  him.  If  a  wild  storm  had  burst  over 
him,  sleep  would  still  have  held  him  in  its 
chains,  for  he  was  buried  in  the  stupor  of  fever. 
As  it  was,  only  the  gentle  dews  of  heaven  were 
sifting  down  upon  his  hot,  flushed  face.  What 
would  have  happened  if  Providence  had  been 
trying  to  sleep  off  the  effects  it  would  be  hard 
to  say;  but  Providence  was  wide  awake  and 
watchful,  and  at  the  proper  moment  it  decided 
that  the  proper  man  should  pass  along  that 
way.  This  was  old  Doctor  Tomlinson,  of  Hills- 
borough,  one  of  Providence's  prime  favorites. 
He  was  called  Doctor  Tom,  and  was  known  and 
[57] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

beloved  from  one  end  of  the  State  to  the 
other. 

Doctor  Tom  was  returning  from  a  visit  to  a 
patient  in  the  country,  and  he  was  suddenly 
aroused  from  his  reflections  by  the  fact  that  his 
old  gray  mare — a  veteran  in  the  practice  of 
medicine — had  stooped  stock-still  in  the  road. 
She  had  caught  sight  of  Billy  Spence  stretched 
out  in  the  fence-corner.  It  seemed  to  be  a  case 
that  demanded  her  attention.  Doctor  Tom, 
not  understanding  the  meaning  or  the  motive 
of  the  old  nag,  slapped  her  with  the  left  rein, 
but  she  switched  her  tail  scornfully,  as  much  as 
to  say  that  if  he  wasn't  doctor  enough  to  see 
trouble  ahead,  she'd  keep  him  there  till  he 
found  it  out. 

"  What's  the  matter,  confound  you?  "  cried 
Doctor  Tom,  with  a  great  show  of  heat.  The 
only  reply  the  old  gray  made  was  to  strike  the 
ground  with  one  of  her  hind  feet  and  cock  her 
ears  forward  in  the  direction  of  Billy  Spence. 
"  If  I  had  a  shotgun,  I'd  fire  both  barrels  right 
slam  bang  into  you!  "  exclaimed  Doctor  Tom. 


iJie  Making  of  a  Statesman 

The  gray  mare  paid  no  attention  to  this  burn 
ing  threat.  She  knew  by  long  experience  what 
a  humbug  the  man  was.  He  weighed  nearly 
three  hundred  pounds,  and,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
jthat  he  pretended  to  be  angry  and  out  of  tem- 
•  per  every  day  in  the  year,  those  who  knew  him 
well,  declared  that  his  great  weight  was  the  re 
sult  of  his  big  heart.  What  a  world  this  would 
be  if  the  rest  of  us  deserved  such  a  compliment 
as  this! 

Apparently,  the  old  gray  mare  concluded 
that  Doctor  Tom,  seated  in  his  gig,  with  a  bush 
or  two  intervening,  was  unable  to  see  what  she 
so  plainly  saw,  so  she  cautiously  advanced  a 
few  paces,  as  if  to  reconnoitre.  This  move 
ment  was  successful,  for  Doctor  Tom  was  able 
to  see  at  once  what  the  trouble  was.  He  was 
out  of  his  gig  in  a  jiffy,  being  very  active,  in 
spite  of  his  rotundity. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  he  exclaimed,  regretfully. 

Then  when  he  had  made  a  closer  inspection: 

"  Dog  take  me  if  it  ain't  Billy  Spence!     And 

fever  world  without  end!  "     He  shook  Billy  by 

[59] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

the  arm.  "Get  up  from  here,  man!  Wake 
up!  Stir  yourself !" 

"  You  don't  say  it  right,"  said  Billy,  some 
what  impatiently.  "  You  should  lift  both  hands 

as  high  as  your  head — so "  He  tried  to  lift 

his  hands,  but  couldn't.  "  And  you  should  be 
a  little  more  in  earnest.  Where's  your  vigor?  " 

"  I'll  show  you  where  it  is  if  you  don't  get  up 
from  there!  "  cried  Doctor  Tom;  and  with  that, 
he  shook  Billy  so  vigorously  that  he  brought 
the  sick  man's  mind  back  to  earth  again  for  a 
brief  period.  "  Come!  get  up !  Here's  my  gig 
right  at  hand.  Get  up,  man,  before  you  are 
soaked  through! " 

Billy  tried  to  respond  by  rising,  and  he  par 
tially  succeeded;  but  he  would  never  have 
found  his  feet  if  Doctor  Tom  had  not  been  there 
to  help  him.  After  several  efforts  he  was 
placed  in  the  gig,  the  old  gray  mare  waiting 
patiently  for  this  unexpected  addition  to  her 
load. 

Once  in  the  vehicle,  the  sick  man  collapsed 
and  lay  on  the  seat.  "  You'll  have  to  do  better 
[60] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

than  that,  Billy,"  said  Doctor  Tom.  "  This 
gig  ain't  much  too  big  for  one,  and  you'll  have 
to  brace  up  a  bit  if  I'm  to  get  in." 

But  Billy's  mind  had  run  away  again.  "  The 
only  way  to  do  it,"  he  declared  glibly,  "  is  to 
place  the  emphasis  on  the  strong  words,  and 
give  the  whole  sentence  the  force  of  action." 

Doctor  Tom  managed  to  "  scrouge  in  the 
gig,"  as  he  expressed  it,  and  as  they  rode  along 
he  gave  Billy  the  benefit  of  a  very  thorough  ex 
amination.  He  found  that  the  sick  man  was 
suffering  from  a  raging  fever,  and  then  he  as 
tonished  the  old  gray  mare  by  urging  her  into 
a  faster  gait  than  her  ordinary  jog  trot. 

"  They've  turned  you  out,  lock,  stock,  and 
barrel,"  remarked  Doctor  Tom,  more  to  him 
self  than  to  his  companion,  but  Billy  was  in  a 
talkative  mood.  His  fever  was  so  high  that 
the  whole  world  was  out  of  gear  to  him;  his 
mind  was  groping  feebly  about  in  the  past. 

"  There  was  Catiline,"  he  said,  in  reply  to 
the  doctor's  remark.  "  '  Not  banished,  but  set 
free.'  "  Then  he  wandered  again,  his  poor 
[61] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
brain  doing  its  best  to  show  an  imaginary  dul 
lard  how  to  make  a  speech,  complaining,  be 
seeching,  and  sometimes  praising.  Doctor 
Tom  drove  straight  to  his  own  home,  and,  once 
there,  gave  some  energetic  orders,  helping 
with  his  own  hands  to  carry  them  out,  so  that 
in  a  very  short  time  Billy  was  in  bed,  where  he 
rolled  and  tossed  and  wrestled  with  his  imagi 
nary  task.  In  that  house  he  had  all  the  nurs 
ing  that  was  necessary,  and,  perhaps,  a  little 
more,  for  Doctor  Tom's  wife  remembered 
Billy  as  a  little  boy.  She  had  been  fond  of  him 
then,  and  now  her  whole  heart  was  in  the  at 
tention  which  she  bestowed  on  him  night  and 
day. 

Poor  Billy's  attack  was  very  serious.  For 
years  he  had  been  living  under  a  strain,  as  it 
were,  and  in  suspense.  He  had  been  doing  his 
work  in  the  unhealthy  atmosphere  of  secrecy, 
and  his  whole  system  had  been  practically 
broken  down  before  the  fever  began  its  rav 
ages.  For  several  days  and  nights  Doctor 
Tom  shook  his  head  doubtfully  as  he  sat  by  the 
[62] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
sick-bed.  He  studied  the  case  as  thoroughly 
as  he  knew  how,  and  he  marshalled  all  his  ex 
perience  in  behalf  of  his  patient;  but  there  was 
something  lacking,  something  that  needed  to 
be  done.  What  it  was  Doctor  Tom  could  not 
discover. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  Billy's  illness  it  chanced 
that  Major  Tumlin  Perdue  was  in  Hillsborough 
on  business.  Doctor  Tomlinson  saw  him  at  a 
distance,  and  signalled  a  desire  to  speak  with 
him. 

"  Major  Perdue,"  he  said,  "  why  did  the 
Featherstones  turn  Billy  Spence  out  to  grass 
as  soon  as  Meredith  died?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  think  they  did,"  responded 
the  Major;  "not  at  all;  quite  the  contrary. 
You've  got  the  thing  backward.  If  such  a 
rumor  is  blowing  about,  please  give  it  the  lie. 
Yes,  sir,  give  it  the  lie,  and  use  my  name.  My 
daughter  and  Emily  are  great  friends,  and  I 
know  that  Emily  is  very  much  distressed  about 
the  matter.  Nobody  knows  why  Spence  left; 
he  had  a  home  there  for  life  if  he  wanted  it.  I 

[63] 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

used  to  think  he  was  a  fine  fellow;  but  he 
was  like  a  colt  I  used  to  own — he  had  more 
promise  than  performance  in  his  make-up. 
Just  give  that  report  the  lie,  and  use  my 
name." 

"  Well,  Major,  you  can  tell  his  friends  over 
there,  if  you  think  it  worth  while,  that  Billy 
Spence  is  at  my  house  sick  with  fever.  He's 
in  a  bad  way;  he  may  pull  through  and  he  may 
not.  I  found  him  asleep  in  a  fence-corner,  and 
he's  been  out  of  his  head  ever  since." 

Major  Perdue  showed  considerable  interest 
in  the  matter,  and,  as  he  was  going  home,  he 
went  two  or  three  miles  out  of  his  way  to 
carry  the  news  to  Emily  Featherstone.  By  10 
o'clock  the  next  day  that  young  lady  was  sit 
ting  by  Billy's  bedside,  trying  to  soothe  him. 
As  she  entered  the  room,  she  heard  him  pro 
nounce  her  name.  "  Emily  is  certain  to  find 
out  all  about  it  if  you  are  not  careful,"  he  said, 
and  he  repeated  it  over  and  over  again. 

"  Emily  knows  all  about  it,"  she  declared, 
laying  her  cool  hand  on  his  forehead,  and 
[64] 


tfhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 
smoothing  his  hair  as  she  had  seen  him  smooth 
her  father's. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  answered;  "  that  is  why 

— that  is  why  she "     His  voice  sank  to  a 

confused  murmur,  and  he  was  soon  asleep.  He 
slept  for  some  time;  as  long,  in  fact,  as  Emily 
allowed  her  hand  to  rest  on  his  brow. 

"  Poor  thing!  "  said  motherly  Mrs.  Tomlin- 
son;  "he's  called  your  name  ten  thousand 
times.  What  he  needs  now  is  sleep.  If  he 
could  sleep  for  seven  or  eight  hours,  or  even 
five  or  six,  Doctor  thinks  he  would  get  well 
without  any  trouble." 

And  sleep  is  what  Billy  got,  for  when  Emily 
found  that  he  slept  well  when  her  hand  was  on 
his  forehead,  she  held  it  there  until  Sleep  had 
definitely  taken  him  in  her  arms.  And  when 
he  awoke  the  next  day,  the  fever  had  left  him 
and  his  head  was  clear;  but  he  was  very  weak. 

He  awoke  and  came  to  himself  while  Emily 

was  sitting  at  a  window  looking  out  on  the 

quiet  streets  of  Hillsborough.     He  looked  at 

her  a  long  time  in  silence.     Finally  he  spoke, 

[65] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

and  he  failed  to  recognize  his  own  voice. 
"  Emily,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  I  had  gone  away. 
Was  it  a  dream?" 

She  rose  and  came  to  his  side.  "  No,  it  was 
not  a  dream/'  she  replied;  "  I  wish  it  were." 

"Where  ami?" 

"  At  Doctor  Tomlinson's,  in  Hillsborough. 
But  you  are  not  to  talk.  You  must  remain 
perfectly  quiet.  I  am  your  nurse,  and  Doctor 
Tom  says  I  am  to  be  obeyed." 

Billy  said  no  more,  but  continued  to  look  at 
her.  In  fact,  he  fairly  devoured  her  with  his 
eyes.  At  first  she  paid  no  attention  to  him, 
but  after  a  while  she  grew  restless;  then  she 
blushed  a  little,  and  finally  turned  away  from 
him  with  a  little  motion  of  her  head  that  was 
intended  to  represent  impatience.  Weak  as 
he  was,  the  gesture  thrilled  him.  It  carried 
him  back  to  the  days  when  she  was  a  slip  of  a 
girl,  and  he  was  a  young  fellow  full  of  life  and 
hope.  The  memory  of  those  happy  days  came 
home  to  him  and  pierced  him,  and  he  turned 
his  head  with  a  sigh. 

[66]  .-• 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

Presently  Doctor  Tomlinson  came  in,  and 
after  examining  the  patient,  turned  to  Emily 
with  a  chuckle.  "  You've  cured  him,  Doctor 
Featherstone,"  he  said.  "  You've  done  more 
in  a  day  and  a  night  than  I  have  been  able  to 
do  in — let  me  see — oh,  well,  in  a  week.  What 
remedy  did  you  employ?  Well,  well,"  seeing 
that  Emily  was  blushing,  "  you  can  write  out 
the  prescription  for  me  some  time  when  you 
are  not  busy." 

He  gave  a  few  directions,  and  went  out  with 
a  broad  smile  on  his  face.  When  Mrs.  Tom 
linson  relieved  Emily,  Doctor  Tom  was  still  in 
the  house,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  young 
woman,  he  began  to  laugh. 

"  Now,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  Doctor 
Tom?  Are  my  clothes  a  misfit?  Is  my  hair 
coming  down?  " 

"  No,  child,  you  look  well  enough  to  go  a- 
courting;  and  that's  what  I  think  you  had  bet 
ter  do.  That  chap  up  there  has  called  your 
name  so  often  that  if  it  hadn't  been  my  dear  old 
mother's  name,  the  very  sound  of  it  would  have 
made  me  tired." 

[67] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

She  regarded  him  with  great  gravity, 
this  time  without  blushing.  "  Do  you  really 
think "  She  paused.  It  was  a  very  em 
barrassing  question  to  ask. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  said  Doctor 
Tom;  "  not  a  bit  in  the  world.  It's  the  old- 
fashioned  variety." 

This  is  just  the  beginning  of  the  story,  so  far 
as  Billy  and  Emily  are  concerned,  but  what 
happened  afterward  may  be  very  briefly  told. 
It  was  when  Billy  became  convalescent,  when 
he  could  eat  and  talk,  and  yet  was  unable  to 
walk  about. 

"  I  have  given  you  a  deal  of  trouble,  Emily," 
he  said  one  day. 

"  But  if  I  think  otherwise?  "  inquired  Emily. 

"  You  will  soon  be  going  home,"  he  sug 
gested. 

"  And  you,  too,  sir,  if  you  will  be  so  kind." 

She  was  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed  very 
close  to  him,  and  when  he  turned  to  look  at  her 
something  in  her  face,  or  maybe  it  was  only 
in  his  mind,  caused  him  to  catch  his  breath. 
"  Emily!  "  he  whispered. 
[68] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
"  Oh,  Billy!  "  she  cried;  and  then  she  leaned 
over  and  placed  her  face  against  his,  a  very 
bold  thing  for  a  young  woman  to  do,  and  yet 
in  this  case  very  necessary. 

Just  then  Doctor  Tomlinson  walked  in. 
They  heard  him,  but  his  presence  made  no  dif 
ference  to  them.  "  You  see,  Doctor  Tom," 
said  Emily,  as  she  raised  her  head,  "  I  am  fol 
lowing  your  advice." 

"  My  advice!  Tut,  tut!  You  were  admin 
istering  your  famous  prescription;  and  I  want 
to  say,  kindly  but  firmly,  that  if  that  is  your  way 
of  curing  patients,  I'll  not  be  able  to  use  it.  So 
far  as  I  am  personally  concerned,  I  object  to 
giving  a  man  such  medicine." 


[69] 


Child  of  Christmas: 
Christmas  Tale  of  North  and  South 


Child  of  Christmas: 
Christmas  Tale  of  North  and  South 


I 

rOU  remember  St.  Ephrem?  It  is  lit 
tle  to  remember  if  you  have  gone  much 
about  |}ie  great  world.  Flavian  Dion 
used  to  say  it  was  well  on  the  way  to  nowhere. 
But  Flavian!  —  well,  that  man  was  always  say 
ing  and  doing  queer  things.  On  his  wedding 
day  he  chucked  his  old  grand'mere  under  the 
chin,  saying,  "Hello,  sissy!"  in  the  English. 
Think  of  that,  and  judge  whether  such  a  man 
could  have  seriousness  when  he  places  St. 
Ephrem  on  the  road  to  nowhere.  It  is  not  in 
the  way  of  travel  —  that  is  true.  But,  living 
here  always,  suppose  you  were  to  go  on  a  jour 
ney  somewhere  —  to  the  fair  at  Montreal,  or  to 
the  feast  of  Ste.  Anne  de  Beaupre:  Pwould  be 
fine,  certainly,  for  a  little  while  a  day,  per- 
[73] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

chance;  but  presently  a  longing  would  take 
hold  of  you,  and  you  would  be  unhappy  until 
you  came  again  in  sight  of  the  shining  spire 
of  the  little  church  at  St.  Ephrem— the  little 
church  that  stands  in  one  corner  of  the  garden 
of  the  dead — and  of  the  dark  green  river  flow 
ing  gently  along.  Then  and  only  then  you 
would  have  the  feeling  of  happiness  and  con 
tent;  you  would  feel  like  shaking  hands  with 
everyone  you  met,  even  your  sour  old  Grandet, 
who  drove  his  daughter  away  from  home. 

But  yet,  it  was  here  that  Flavian  Dion  lived. 
His  house  is  yonder — you  go  by  the  church, 
turn  to  the  left,  and  leave  the  village  a  little 
behind  you.  Oh,  but  he  was  queer,  that  Fla 
vian!  Of  all  who  have  lived  here  and  gone 
away,  he  is  the  only  one  who  has  never  re 
turned.  But  he  has  thought  about  it;  he  has 
tried  to  come  —  oh,  you  may  depend  upon 
that. 

Flavian  went  away;  he  left  his  wife  and  child! 
Ah,  but  softly,  madame !  gently,  m'sieu' !  have 
no  impatience.  You  know  not  the  conditions. 
[74] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

Flavian  Dion  was  the  artist  born,  having  the 
gift  from  heaven.  From  heaven,  you  say? 
Well,  let  it  be  so.  But  among  those  who  labor 
and  toil  with  their  hands  for  the  bread  they  eat, 
there  is  the  feeling  that  the  artist,  the  poet,  is 
both  light-headed  and  lazy,  having  queer 
dreams  and  strange  fancies.  But  yes;  he  is 
one  possessed.  With  evil  spirits?  Ciel!  Ask 
no  questions,  or  be  content  with  short  answers. 
You  may  have  your  own  opinions;  but  we — 
we  who  have  no  time  for  play;  we  who  dig  and 
plough,  and  toil  and  spin;  we  who  sow  or  reap 
in  weather  fair  or  foul — depend  upon  it,  we 
know  the  light-headed  and  flighty.  Alas !  none 
better. 

Well,  then,  behold  this  Flavian  Dion  sitting 
at  home  while  the  sun  is  shining,  playing  his 
flute  and  his  violin  for  himself,  his  little  daugh 
ter,  his  dog,  and  his  pig — the  daughter  smiling 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  the  dog  whining,  and  the 
pig  grunting  with  satisfaction;  or  worse  still, 
pouring  into  their  ears  his  droll  tales  of  le  Loup 
Garrou.  Oh,  fine!  yes;  and  his  poor  wife  toil- 
[75] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

ing  in  the  fields,  or  drudging  in  the  house  from 
sunrise  to  sunset  and  later. 

That  was  the  din  raised  about  Flavian  Dion's 
ears  at  home  and  abroad,  and  all  over  the  vil 
lage  of  St.  Ephrem.  And  the  good  wife  made 
matters  worse  by  slapping  the  child,  kicking 
the  dog,  beating  the  pig,  scolding,  fretting, 
worrying  with  every  waking  breath  she  drew. 
She  had  cause;  but  yes — great  cause;  for  a 
hard-working  woman,  who  knows  that  her 
goodman,  for  all  his  strength  and  gifts,  is  a 
good-for-nothing,  is  not  to  be  loudly  blamed 
for  any  lack  of  patience  or  any  show  of  temper. 
Very  well;  but  could  Flavian  Dion  be  blamed 
for  the  nature  which  the  good  God  had  given 
him?  And  had  there  not  been  days  long  ago 
— yes,  and  moonlit  nights,  for  that  matter — 
when  Suzette  Desmoulins  had  listened  to  Fla 
vian's  music  as  if  it  came  from  heaven,  and 
laughed  at  his  drolleries  until  the  tears  ran 
down  her  cheeks? 

Well,  heaven  is  over  us  all,  and  little  enough 
do  we  know  of  its  purposes.  Working  a  little 
[76] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

here  and  there,  and  idling  a  great  deal,  if  the 
invention  of  heart-breaking  melodies  is  to  be 
called  idling,  Flavian  Dion  allowed  the  din 
about  his  ears  to  grow  and  increase  until  Zeph- 
erine,  the  daughter,  was  old  enough  to  be 
placed  in  the  school  of  the  good  Sisters  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  at  St.  Hyacinthe.  Then,  having 
no  one  to  hearken  to  his  flute  or  violin,  or  to 
laugh  and  cry  by  turns  at  his  beautiful  stories, 
he  took  his  flute  and  his  fiddle,  and  his  neces 
sary  belongings,  and  went  singing  along  the 
road  to  the  States.  He  disappeared  and  was 
swallowed  and  digested  in  the  great  maw  of 
the  outer  world,  which,  like  the  sea,  knowing 
neither  hunger  nor  satiety,  continues  to  engulf 
and  overwhelm  all  who  respond  to  its  invita 
tions.  He  disappeared,  and  was  not  heard  of 
again  until  long  after  Suzette,  his  wife,  had 
been  laid  to  rest  in  the  little  church-yard. 
Then,  some  wayfarer,  returning  home,  re 
ported  that  he  had  met  the  wanderer  in  New 
Orleans. 

It  was  queer,  the  neighbors  thought;  but 
[77] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
after  Flavian  went  away,  his  wife  was  inconsol 
able.  Her  grief  was  genuine,  too,  for  they  do 
not  play  at  make-believe  in  New  France — they 
with  the  hard  hands,  the  bent  backs,  and  the 
tanned  faces.  It  was  indeed  true  that  Suzette 
was  heart-broken.  No  other  ever  was  or  could 
be  as  handsome,  as  gentle,  and  as  kind  as  her 
Flavian  now  seemed  to  be  in  the  light  of  her 
sorrow  and  remorse.  Ah,  if  the  good  God 
would  but  lead  her  goodman  home  again,  she 
would  take  vows  of  penitence,  she  would  make 
any  and  all  sacrifices,  she  would  work  her  arms 
off  to  the  shoulders,  so  that  he  might  have 
time  to  compose  his  lovely  music.  Ah,  just 
heaven!  she  would  sit  and  listen  to  his  won 
derful  stories  as  in  the  old  days,  and  never  tire 
of  them.  She  had  no  thought  but  of  her  Fla 
vian,  and  with  his  name  on  her  lips  she  died. 
It  is  pitiful;  ah,  yes!  but,  after  all,  life  is  life, 
and  God  is  good. 

Good,  indeed,  for  there  was  Zepherine,  the 
daughter  of  Flavian,  to  be  looked  after.     She 
was  in  the  hands  of  Providence  in  a  very  real 
[78] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

sense.  This  was  not  her  view  alone;  it  was  the 
belief  of  the  good  Sisters  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
She  was  what  is  called  une  fille  de  noel — a  child 
of  Christmas — that  being  the  day  on  which  she 
was  born.  She  grew  with  the  growing  years, 
and  was  happy  with  the  rest.  She  had  very 
vivid  memories  of  her  father  and  his  gentle 
ways.  He  lived  in  her  heart  as  a  man  who  was 
as  handsome  and  as  gifted  as  the  prince  in  the 
fairy-tales.  The  melodies  he  had  called  forth 
from  his  flute  and  violin  still  lingered  in  her 
ears;  the  wonderful  stories  he  had  told  were 
still  fresh  in  her  mind.  They  were  a  part  of 
her  daily  life.  They  made  for  her,  indeed,  a 
romance,  which  was  not  less  beautiful  because 
it  was  full  of  sadness  and  sorrow. 

She  knew  where  her  mother  was;  yes,  full 
well.  Many  and  many  a  time  she  had  knelt 
before  the  little  white  cross  that  marked  the 
spot  in  the  garden  of  the  dead  at  St.  Ephrem, 
and  prayed  for  the  peace  and  repose  of  her 
mother's  soul.  As  for  her  father — well,  at  the 
proper  time  the  good  God  would  take  her  by 
[79J 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

the  hand  and  show  her  where  he  was.  She  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt  of  this,  and  she  prayed 
that,  when  the  time  should  come,  she  should 
be  prepared  to  follow  the  guiding  Hand.  So 
the  years  went  on  until,  at  last,  one  Christmas 
Day,  it  seemed  to  Zepherine  Dion  that  this  un 
seen  Hand  was  beckoning  to  her,  and  she  made 
haste  to  obey  the  summons. 


[80] 


"\  TOW  for  more  reasons  than  one  it  is  to 
/  y  be  regretted  that  Mr.  Sanders,  of  Shady 
Dale,  cannot  have  the  privilege  of  telling 
the  rest  of  this  story  in  his  own  inimitable  way. 
He  used  to  tell  it,  and  tell  it  well;  he  gave  it  a 
coloring  and  a  humor  all  his  own,  and  he  added 
to  it  the  eloquence  of  gesture  and  the  appro 
priate  play  of  his  happy  countenance.  But 
such  is  the  pallor  of  the  printed  narrative  that  it 
would  fail  to  respond  to  treatment  necessary  to 
reproduce,  even  feebly,  the  effects  produced  by 
Mr.  Sanders's  genial  methods.  He  used  to  tell 
the  story  with  great  gusto,  and  he  told  it  so  as 
to  bring  out  with  startling  emphasis  the  main 
features  of  the  various  episodes.  More  than 
that,  he  was  able  to  lay  upon  it  the  burden  of 
a  family  history  with  which  it  had  only  casual 
connection.  He  would  tell  about  the  settle 
ment  of  Shady  Dale  by  the  Cloptons;  of  the 
[81] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

original  deed  in  the  handwriting  of  General 
Alexander  McGillivray,  the  great  chief  and 
statesman  of  the  Creek  Nation;  of  the  antiq 
uity  of  the  Clopton  family;  of  the  genealogical 
records  that  may  still  be  found  in  the  church 
under  which  the  bones  of  Shakespeare  repose. 
In  this  way  he  would  account  for  the  remarka 
ble  individuality  of  Sarah  Clopton,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Matthew.  And  such  was  the  art 
or  instinct  with  which  he  handled  these  appar 
ently  burdensome  details  that  his  hearers  never 
suspected  that  the  course  of  the  narrative  had 
been  interrupted. 

Mr.  Sanders  knew,  none  better,  how  to  work 
up  a  mystery  from  the  most  commonplace  ma 
terial,  and  how  to  kindle  curiosity  by  a  word  or 
a  gesture.  Sometimes  he  would  begin:  "  Did 
any  of  you-all  know  that  we  had  a  Christmas 
gal  in  this  neck  of  the  woods?  *'  and  then 
again :  "  Did  you  ever  hear  the  facts  about  lit 
tle  Miss  Johns,  our  Christmas  gal?  "  After 
which  he  would  rub  his  chin  and  say :  "  Well, 
the  most  principal  fact  is  that  they  never  was 
[82] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

no  sech  person  as  little  Miss  Johns.  You  see 
that  house  over  yander  wi'  the  big,  long  peaz- 
zer  an*  the  tall,  red  chimbleys?  She  lives  right 
thar,  an*  sh's  rockin'  'long  purty  comfortubble, 
considerin'  all  the  ups  an'  downs  an'  drawbacks 
she's  had  to  endoyre."  The  person  whose 
curiosity  would  fail  to  respond  to  such  a  sharp 
fillip  as  that,  is  certainly  to  be  pitied. 

Well,  first  and  foremost,  there  was  Sarah 
Clopton,  who,  in  1859,  was  mistress  and  man 
ager  of  Shady  Dale.  As  age  crept  slowly  upon 
him,  Matthew  Clopton  had  gradually  surren 
dered  the  management  of  his  domain  into  the 
hands  of  his  daughter,  who  had  early  devel 
oped  executive  abilities  of  the  rarest  kind. 
This  daughter  had  never  married.  The  years 
of  her  young  womanhood  had  been  given  to 
the  rearing  of  her  nephew,  Francis  Bethune, 
and  to  this  task  she  had  devoted  the  largest 
part  of  her  time  and  quite  the  largest  share  of 
her  affections.  At  forty,  Sarah  Clopton  still 
preserved  much  of  the  beauty  of  her  younger 
days.  Time  had  neither  dimmed  the  lustre  of 
[83] 


tfhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

her  eyes  nor  marred  her  features,  and  there  was 
a  mature,  an  almost  masculine  strength  in  her 
face  that  gave  an  added  charm  to  her  conver 
sation. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Sarah  Clopton  was 
lonely,  for  she  had  large  resources  and  exacting 
duties  to  fall  back  upon.  What  she  longed  for 
and  most  needed  was  companionship.  There 
are  moments  when  the  busiest  of  women  are 
thrown  back  upon  themselves — intervals  when 
their  natures  demand  communication  with 
some  thoroughly  congenial  person.  This  was 
eminently  true  of  Sarah  Clopton.  Francis 
Bethune  had  arrived  at  an  age  when  he  could 
be  depended  on  to  take  care  of  himself,  and  it 
was  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  would  continue 
to  hang  to  the  apron-strings  of  his  aunt. 

Besides  Francis  Bethune,  there  was  Elsie 
Clopton,  the  young  widow  of  Sarah's  brother, 
McGillivray  Clopton ;  but  there  were  streaks  of 
frivolity  and  folly  in  the  character  of  Elsie  that 
the  elder  woman  found  unbearable.  A  widow 
with  the  airs,  ways,  and  romantic  notions  of  a 

[84] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

school-girl  is  not  the  most  attractive  person  in 
the  world;  and  Elsie  was  hopelessly  given  over 
to  the  cheap  and  childish  folderol  that  is  some 
times  observable  in  silly  girls,  but  is  rarely  to 
be  seen  in  those  who  have  passed  through  the 
enlightening  experience  of  marriage  and  be 
reavement.  The  young  widow  had  some  at 
tractive  qualities,  but  none  that  so  far  offset  her 
silly  romancing  as  to  commend  her  to  Sarah 
Clopton's  intimate  friendship. 

Then  there  were  Doctor  Randolph  Dorring- 
ton  and  his  daughter  Nan.  Both  of  these  were 
indeed  the  objects  of  Sarah  Clopton's  affec 
tionate  appreciation,  but  they  were  what  they 
were :  one  a  practising  physician,  busy  some 
times  day  and  night,  the  other  the  most  de 
licious  and  surprising  little  girl  in  the  world 
—  and  not  so  small,  either,  when  you  came  to 
think  about  it,  but  bubbling  over  with  the 
high  spirits  of  a  joyous  and  innocent  youth. 

Moved,  therefore,  by  an  impulse  which  she 
could  not  have  explained  if  she  had  tried,  Sarah 
Clopton  caused  an  advertisement  to  be  insert- 

[85] 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

ed  in  the  Malvern  Recorder.    This  notice  was 
worded  to  the  following  effect: 


WANTED,  by  a  middle-aged  ladv  of  means,  a  com 
panion.     A  young  woman  of  education  and  re 
finement,  and  possessed  of  some   musical  accomplish, 
ments,  preferred.     The  position  will  not  be  a  servile  one. 
Applicant  should  come  well  recommended. 


To  this  were  added  the  necessary  details 
covering  the  address. 

It  seems  that  no  sooner  had  the  advertise 
ment  appeared  than  Providence  intervened 
and  began  to  take  a  hand  in  the  matter.  A  few 
days  after  the  notice  appeared  in  the  Malvern 
newspaper,  Father  Martin,  who  had  charge  of 
the  small  Catholic  community  in  that  city, 
gave  entertainment  to  a  missionary  priest,  who 
was  on  his  way  to  Canada  from  New  Orleans. 
To  the  care  of  his  guest  Father  Martin  in 
trusted  a  trifling  souvenir,  to  be  delivered  to 
the  Mother  Superior  of  the  Convent  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  at  St.  Hyacinthe.  At  this 
convent  Father  Martin's  only  sister  had  died 
while  attending  the  school.  The  letters  of 
[86] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

the  young  girl  had  betrayed  such  love 
and  devotion  for  the  gentle  women  who 
taught  her,  and  especially  for  the  Mother 
Superior,  that  her  brother  took  advantage  of 
the  opportunity  to  send  some  small  token  of 
his  gratitude. 

Whatever  the  token  may  have  been,  he 
wrapped  it  in  a  copy  of  the  Malvern  Re- 
corder,  tied  the  bundle  neatly,  and  saw  that 
his  guest  placed  it  safely  in  his  travelling 
satchel.  This  particular  copy  of  the  Re 
corder  contained  Sarah  Clopton's  advertise 
ment.  The  souvenir  reached  its  destination  in 
due  time,  and  was  received  with  pious  appreci 
ation.  Then,  when  the  Mother  Superior  was 
finding  a  place  for  it,  where  it  would  remind 
her  of  the  sender,  and  especially  of  the  young 
girl,  dead  long  ago,  one  of  the  Sisters,  moved 
by  curiosity,  smoothed  the  wrinkles  and  creases 
of  the  wrapper,  and  almost  the  first  thing  on 
which  her  eyes  fell  was  the  advertisement  of 
Sarah  Clopton.  She  called  to  Zepherine  Dion, 
and,  for  brevity's  sake,  turned  the  matter 
[87] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

rapidly  into  French,  though  Zepherine  could 
read  and  write  English  fairly  well. 

"  It  is  on  the  way  to  New  Orleans/'  the  Sis 
ter  suggested.  Now,  this  was  intended  as  a 
piece  of  pleasantry,  all  the  Sisters  knowing  of 
Zepherine's  expressed  purpose  to  go  in  search 
of  her  father  when  the  opportune  moment 
should  arrive.  To  the  surprise  of  the  Sister, 
and,  indeed,  of  all,  Zepherine  took  the  sugges 
tion  seriously. 

"  But  yes,  my  Sister,"  she  remarked  with 
gentle  gravity,  "  it  is  true.  It  is  on  the  way 
there.  Do  I  go  by  your  advice?  " 

"  Silly  child!  "  the  Sister  cried,  taken  aback; 
"  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  take 
me  too  seriously." 

Zepherine  shook  her  head  solemnly.  "  No, 
my  Sister;  to-day  I  am  eighteen.  I  have 
finished  here.  Now  I  must  find  my  dear  father. 
He  is  there."  She  waved  her  hand  toward  the 
south. 

"  Oh,  folly,  folly! "  cried  the  Sister,  alarmed 
at  the  serious  attitude  of  the  girl.  "  You 
[88] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

know  not  where  your  father  is,  the  poor  man. 
Perhaps  the  good  God  has  taken  him;  you 
know  not." 

"  But  I  feel  that  he  is  there,  my  Sister," 
Zepherine  persisted.  "  Hourly  I  pray  to  be 
set  right;  but  it  is  always  the  same.  I  have  the 
strong  feeling  that  he  is  there  waiting  for  me, 
my  Sister." 

"  But  will  you  have  reason,  silly  child? " 
cried  the  Sister.  She  felt  that  she  had  made 
a  serious  mistake  in  calling  Zepherine's  atten 
tion  to  the  advertisement. 

"  It  is  reasonable,  my  Sister,  to  have  the 
strong  desire  to  find  my  dear  father,"  replied 
Zepherine. 

At  any  rate,  it  seemed  reasonable  to  the  girl; 
and  as  she  was  to  go  away  from  the  convent 
and  out  into  the  world  in  any  event,  the  Mother 
Superior  decided  to  take  the  matter  into  her 
own  hands,  and,  if  everything  should  be  found 
to  be  favorable,  to  forward  the  hopes  and  de 
sires  of  Zepherine  Dion.  So  she  wrote  to 
Father  Martin  at  Malvern,  making  such  in- 
[89] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

quiries  as  the  nature  of  the  case  and  her  strong 
interest  in  the  girl  called  for.  Father  Martin 
knew  the  Cloptons  well,  and  he  lost  no  time  in 
placing  in  the  Mother  Superior's  hands  such  in 
formation  as  was  calculated  to  set  her  mind  at 
rest.  So,  at  last,  after  considerable  correspond 
ence,  and  many  long  days  that  seemed  inter 
minable  to  Zepherine,  the  matter  was  arranged 
definitely,  and  the  young  girl  came  south  to 
begin,  as  she  thought,  the  search  for  her  father, 
who  was  the  one  precious  memory  of  her  child 
hood. 

It  was  Christmas  Day  when  the  Malvern 
Recorder  was  opened  and  read  in  the  con 
vent  at  St.  Hyacinthe,  but  it  was  the  beginning 
of  summer  before  Zepherine  reached  Shady 
Dale,  the  reason  being  that  stage-coaches  were 
more  popular  in  1860  than  they  are  to-day. 
As  for  Zepherine,  she  felt  she  was  taking  a  long 
step  in  the  direction  of  her  father,  and  there 
was  never  a  moment  when  she  regretted  it,  save 
during  the  last  hour  of  her  journey,  when  de 
pression  seized  her,  and  all  sorts  of  doubts  and 
[90] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

fears  and  grim  forebodings  took  possession  of 
her  mind.  But,  after  all,  matters  fell  out  very 
well.  It  was  like  coming  home,  only  it  was 
different — oh,  quite  different;  for  who  could 
have  dreamed  that  Sarah  Clopton  would  take 
the  girl  in  her  arms  at  the  first  moment  of  their 
meeting? 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  she  said  afterward,  "  it  was 
very  fortunate  for  you  and  for  me  that  you 
came  upon  me  just  when  you  did.  Five  min 
utes  later  I  should  have  shaken  you  coldly  by 
the  hand,  and  begged  you  to  take  off  your 
things,  as  we  say  in  Georgia,  and  then  and  there 
I  should  have  plied  you  with  a  hundred  and  one 
impertinent  questions.  Did  I  ask  you  about 
yourself  at  all?" 

"  Except  so — if  I  was  tired,"  replied  Zepher- 
ine.  "  You  had  not  the  time,"  she  went  on, 
laughing  and  blushing.  "  I  told  you  every 
thing.  It  was  like  meeting  the  dear  friend  you 
have  not  seen  for  long — oh,  so  long !  " 

The  little  French  Canadienne,  shy  as  a  wood 
blossom,  very  quickly  made  a  place  for  herself 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
in  the  hearts  of  those  who  came  to  know  her 
well.  She  was  timid  and  sensitive  to  a  degree, 
and  yet  had  a  certain  form  of  pride  that  stood 
her  in  good  stead.  For  one  thing,  this  pride 
compelled  her  to  learn  English  very  rapidly; 
and  there  was  a  certain  daintiness  in  her  way 
of  speaking  the  difficult  tongue  that  tickled 
Mr.  Billy  Sanders  immensely. 

"  Be  jigged  ef  she  don't  know  the  diction 
ary  by  heart!"  he  declared  on  one  occasion. 
"  She's  like  the  gal  in  the  candy-store  that 
guesses  what  you  want  by  the  way  your  mouth 
dribbles.  This  French  girl  picks  out  the  purti- 
est  words  you  ever  heard  in  all  your  born  days. 
You  mayn't  have  heard  'em  before,  but  your 
reason  tells  you  that  they're  the  identical  words 
that  ever'body  would  pick  out  ef  they  know'd 
how  purty  they  sounded." 

And  there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what 
Mr.  Sanders  said,  and  he  was  partly  responsible 
for  it.  With  no  particular  knowledge  of  liter 
ary  English,  Mr.  Sanders,  nevertheless,  had  a 
very  keen  ear  for  the  vernacular,  and  a  broad 

[92] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

smile  used  to  spread  over  his  benevolent  coun 
tenance  when  Zepherine  tripped  in  her  Eng 
lish.  There  were  times  when  she  thought  she 
hated  Mr.  Sanders,  but  his  smiles  spurred  her 
on  until  she  came  to  handle  the  vernacular 
much  more  correctly  than  any  of  her  acquaint 
ances — but  always  with  a  quaint  accent,  which 
Nan  Dorrington  thought  the  most  beautiful 
Sound  her  ears  had  ever  heard. 

Mr.  Sanders  used  to  contend  that  he  had  but 
three  weaknesses — Nan,  Zepherine,  and  John 
Barleycorn.  Nan,  who  was  only  thirteen,  spent 
more  than  two-thirds  of  her  waking  thoughts 
in  the  land  of  romance.  To  her  Zepherine  was 
a  beautiful  girl  who  was  the  victim  of  some  ma 
licious  fairy.  She  would  find  her  father,  and 
then  the  spell  would  be  broken.  If  she  didn't 
become  a  princess,  she  would  at  least  marry 
some  handsome  young  man,  and  be  happy  for 
ever  after.  As  for  Mr.  Sanders,  Nan  regarded 
him  as  a  man  who  could  work  magic.  If  he 
had  turned  into  a  beautiful  prince  right  before 
her  eyes,  she  would  not  have  been  in  the  least 
[93] 


'The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

surprised.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  he 
could  find  Zepherine's  father,  or  tell  her  how 
to  find  him,  whenever  he  thought  the  proper 
time  had  come.  Such  was  her  confidence  in 
the  powers  of  Mr.  Sanders  that  she  used  to  say 
to  him  when  they  were  alone  together:  "  Don't 
let's  find  Miss  Johns's  father  too  soon;  she 
might  go  away." 

"That's  a  fact,"  Mr.  Sanders  would  reply; 
"  let's  put  it  off  jest  as  long  as  we  can  in  jestice 
to  her  feelin's.  Let's  git  her  fixed  so  she'll 
have  to  stay,  an'  then  we'll  go  git  her  daddy, 
wharever  he  is,  an'  fetch  him  home  to  her." 

Mr.  Sanders  always  humored  Nan's  ro 
mances;  for  she  was  a  sort  of  a  fairy  herself, 
and  could  change  from  a  dreaming  girl  into 
the  worst  sort  of  a  tomboy  in  two  shakes  of 
a  sheep's  tail,  as  Mr.  Sanders  put  it.  When 
her  mischievousness  became  unendurable,  Mr. 
Sanders  had  a  way  of  making  a  very  demure 
young  woman  of  the  child.  "  Don't  be  sech 
a  rowdy,  Nan,"  he  would  say.  "  Frank  Be- 
thune  owes  you  a  whippin',  an'  I'll  make  him 
[94] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

pay  you  off  ef  you  don't  behave."  The  mention 
of  Bethune's  name  always  had  a  sobering  effect 
on  Nan.  The  two  were  supposed  to  be  sworn 
enemies,  and  were  not  even  on  speaking  terms. 

After  the  advent  of  Zepherine,  the  old  Clop- 
ton  homestead  no  longer  had  an  empty  appear 
ance.  Nan  came  every  day,  and  in  fact  spent 
more  than  half  of  her  time  there;  and  Sarah 
Clopton  concluded  that  she  had  made  a  very 
profitable  investment  when  she  paid  the  Mal- 
vern  editor  seventy-five  cents  for  the  adver 
tisement  which  brought  Zepherine  into  the 
house. 

Mr.  Sanders  took  a  great  fancy  to  the 
stranger  from  the  first.  It  was  a  favorite  re 
mark  of  his  that  "  ef  you'll  bile  your  ches'nuts, 
the  worrums  won't  bite  you,"  and  not  infre 
quently  he  would  add  the  information  that 
"  they's  different  kinds  of  ches'nuts  an'  a  heap 
of  ways  to  bile  'em."  A  little  reflection  will 
show  that  the  original  maxim,  when  viewed  in 
the  light  of  Mr.  Sanders's  footnote  of  expla 
nation,  covers  a  multitude  of  instances,  both 

[95] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

ancient  and  modern.  The  reference  is  appro 
priate  here  for  the  reason  that  Mr.  Sanders,  as 
soon  as  he  became  fairly  well  acquainted  with 
Zepherine,  laid  his  broad  hand  on  her  shoul 
der,  saying:  "  Honey,  it  looks  to  me  mighty 
like  all  your  ches'nuts  is  purty  well  biled;  ef 
they  ain't,  here's  what'll  help  you  to  bile  the 
rest  on  'em." 

Of  course  this  was  worse  than  Greek  to 
Zepherine,  but  she  was  fully  enlightened  when 
the  old  man  drew  her  gently  toward  him,  as 
she  had  seen  him  draw  Nan,  and  said,  "  I'll  be 
your  pappy,  honey,  till  you  find  a  better  one." 
She  knew  from  the  kindly  light  in  the  clear  and 
honest  blue  eyes  that  looked  into  hers  that  Mr. 
Sanders  had  pledged  to  her  both  his  friendship 
and  his  protection;  and  it  was  very  pleasant  to 
have  it  so.  She  knew  that  it  would  be  a  very 
easy  matter  to  become  fond  of  the  tender 
hearted  old  Georgian.  But,  after  Sarah  Clop- 
ton,  the  dearest  friend  that  Zepherine  found  in 
her  new  surroundings  was  Nan  Dorrington. 
Verging  on  to  fourteen,  Nan  was  still  a  child. 
[96] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

It  could  be  coldly  said  that  she  was  no  beauty; 
yet  she  was  lovely  in  her  artlessness  and  sim 
plicity,  and  was  as  graceful  as  some  wild  thing 
fresh  from  the  woods  or  fields.  Her  face  glowed 
with  health  and  high  spirits,  and  was  full  of  in 
timations  of  mischief;  and  no  one  knew  whether 
these  intimations  peeped  from  the  dimples  in 
her  cheeks,  or  lurked  in  the  laughing  corners 
of  her  rosy  lips,  or  sparkled  in  the  brown  eyes 
veiled  with  long,  dark  lashes.  As  tricksy  as 
Ariel,  her  hoyden  ways  rhymed  true  to  mirth 
and  innocence. 

Nan  was  not  always  hot-foot  in  pursuit  of 
fun  and  mischief.  No,  indeed!  There  were 
long  hours  when  she  would  sit  and  watch 
Zepherine  at  her  'broidery  work — watch  the 
white  floss  grow  into  beautiful  shapes,  butter 
flies  hovering  over  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  deli 
cate  vines  weaving  themselves  into  beautiful 
wreaths.  And  at  such  times  it  would  have 
been  a  wonder  if  Sarah  Clopton  or  Mr.  Sanders 
were  not  also  engaged  in  watching  the  deft 
fingers  weaving  the  figures. 
[97] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

On  one  occasion,  when  Mr.  Sanders  was 
watching  the  fairy-like  work,  Zepherine  raised 
her  eyes  and  cried:  "  Oh,  they  have  change 
my  name!  I  think  it  is  too  bad." 

Nan,  who  was  also  sitting  near,  smiled  faintly 
as  she  caught  the  eye  of  Mr.  Sanders.  "  Yes/' 
she  replied;  "your  name  is  Miss  Johns.  I 
think  it  very  pretty — I  called  you  Miss  Johns 
from  the  first." 

"  But  Johns  is  not  Dion;  I  think  it  is  cruel," 
protested  Zepherine.  "  How  will  my  dear 
father  know  me  as  Miss  Johns?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  honey,"  said  Mr.  San 
ders;  "  the  way  you  pernounce  the  two  names 
makes  'em  sound  jest  like  they  was  twins. 
Don't  you  be  afeared  about  your  pappy  not 
knowin'  you.  Ef  they's  any  trouble  about  it, 
I'll  interduce  you  to  him." 

Zepherine  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or 
cry;  and  before  she  could  make  up  her  mind 
to  do  either,  Sarah  Clopton,  who  had  heard  a 
part  of  the  conversation,  remarked  that  Mr. 
Sanders  had  a  very  bad  habit  of  changing 
[98] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

names,  and  she  reminded  him  of  the  havoc  he 
had  played  with  the  family  name  of  poor  old 
Peter  Valicombe. 

"  Well,  to  my  mind,  Sarah,  I  holp  him  out'n 
a  mighty  big  difficulty."  But  it  was  plain  that 
he  had  little  relish  for  the  subject. 

The  reference  to  the  matter,  however,  kin 
dled  the  curiosity  of  both  Zepherine  and  Nan, 
and  they  insisted  on  knowing  all  the  facts  in 
the  case.  Mr.  Sanders  arose,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  said  he  believed  he  would  go  out  and  see 
which  way  the  wind  was  blowing.  Nan  jumped 
up  and  caught  him,  and  made  him  sit  down 
again,  and  he  proceeded  to  tell  them  how  the 
family  name  of  poor  Peter  Valicombe  had  been 
so  changed  that  none  of  the  friends  of  his  youth 
would  know  him  if  they  should  meet  him  in  the 
road.  It  was,  indeed,  a  peculiar  episode,  and 
one  that  had  far-reaching  results.  One  of  these 
results,  it  may  be  said,  bore  directly  on  the 
fortunes  of  Zepherine  Dion  and  in  a  way  as 
curious  as  could  be  imagined. 

In    1858,    Mr.    Valicombe   was   the    only 
[99] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

shoemaker  in  Harmony  Grove,  the  little 
town  to  which  Shady  Dale  lies  adjacent;  in 
1870,  he  was  the  proprietor  of  a  shoe  and 
leather  store  there;  and  yet  Mr.  Sanders  could 
have  said  of  him,  as  he  frequently  said  of  Miss 
Johns,  that  there  was  never  any  such  person 
in  Harmony  Grove.  The  explanation  is  very 
simple,  and  it  is  also  very  characteristic  of 
a  neighborhood  where  humor  ran  riot  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end.  When  Mr.  Vali- 
combe  went  to  Harmony  Grove,  in  1858,  the 
small  tin  sign  that  hung  over  the  door  of  his 
modest  shop  bore  this  inscription:  "Pierre 
Bienvenue,  Boot  and  Shoe  Maker."  The 
name,  with  its  alien  tang,  attracted  the  atten 
tion  of  Mr.  Sanders  the  very  day  the  shoemaker 
began  to  ply  his  trade  in  the  town.  Forthwith, 
the  humor-loving  Georgian  went  into  the  shop 
and  engaged  in  friendly  conversation  with  the 
newcomer.  His  first  remark  was  characteris 
tic.  "  Why,  you  ain't  much  bigger'n  your 
name,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  some  bigger — you  thing  so?  "  smil- 
[100] 


A  Child  of  Christmas  •'•'  :  , :  ': 
ingly  replied  Pierre  Bienvenue,  whose  stock  of 
English  was  somewhat  limited,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  he  had  spent  the  largest  part  of  his 
life  in  the  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans, 
where  he  had  no  need  to  employ  any  other 
language  than  French. 

"  My  name  is  Sanders — William  H.  San 
ders,"  remarked  the  Georgian,  by  way  of  intro 
duction.  "  Some  folks  older'n  me  go  so  fur  as 
to  call  me  Billy." 

"  Oh,  yes!  Billee — me,  I  have  some  frien' 
name  Billee.  I  like  it  if  I  make  some  shoes  for 
those  name." 

Mr.  Sanders  smiled  leniently.  "  Well,  when 
I  take  a  notion  for  to  have  my  name  shod,  be 
jigged  ef  I  don't  give  you  the  job,"  he  de 
clared;  "an"  whilst  you're  fixin'  to  do  that, 
maybe  you'll  up  an'  tell  me  what  your  name 
mought  be.  I  seed  it  on  the  sign  out  thar,  but 
we  ain't  livin'  in  'postolic  times,  an'  tharfore  I 
can't  lay  no  claim  to  a  gift  of  tongues."  The 
shoemaker  paused  in  his  work  and  looked  in 
quiringly  at  Mr.  Sanders,  puzzled,  but  still  smil- 
[101] 


c!7tf  -Making  of  a  Statesman 

ing.  "  How  do  you  call  your  name?  "  The 
Georgian  was  persistent. 

"  'Ow  I  call  my  name,  me?  Bienvenue — 
Pierre  Bienvenue." 

"  You'll  never  git  me  out  of  the  bog  at  that 
gait/'  remarked  Mr.  Sanders.  "  What  is  the 
English  of  your  name?  Give  it  to  me  in  plain 
Georgy  talk." 

The  shoemaker  paused  again,  scratched  his 
head  with  the  point  of  his  awl,  and  reflected. 
Finally  he  made  reply,  but  whether  he  an 
swered,  "  Peter  Velcoom,"  or  "  Vailcoom," 
makes  little  difference.  What  he  tried  to  say 
was  "  Peter  Welcome,"  but  Mr.  Sanders  didn't 
understand  it  that  way;  and  when  he  issued 
forth  from  the  shop  he  carried  in  his  mind  the 
name — Valicombe — by  which  the  shoemaker 
and  his  descendants  were  to  be  known  in  that 
region  henceforth.  Such  a  thing  could  not 
have  occurred  in  a  community  or  a  section  less 
given  over  to  humor.  As  the  name  fell  from 
the  lips  of  Mr.  Sanders,  so  it  has  been  pre 
served.  Forty  years  have  served  to  change 
[102] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

the  map  of  the  world  and  to  alter  the  destinies 
of  nations,  but  they  have  failed  to  expunge  a 
single  letter  of  the  name  which  Mr.  Sanders 
so  generously  bestowed  on  the  little  French 
shoemaker  at  Harmony  Grove. 

Now,  the  most  interesting  part  of  this  re 
cital,  so  far  as  Zepherine  was  concerned,  was 
the  fact  that  the  Frenchman  was  still  in  the  vil 
lage,  and  that  he  was  from  New  Orleans,  where 
her  dear  father  had  been  seen  a  few  years  be 
fore.  It  was  interesting — yes,  indeed,  it  was 
important — to  know  that  there  was  someone 
close  at  hand  who  had  been  in  the  same  city 
with  her  father,  and  had  probably  met  him,  or 
passed  him  on  the  street.  This  was  something 
—  oh,  a  great  deal  —  and,  fortunately,  Nan 
thought  so,  too.  Sarah  Clopton  was  not  en 
thusiastic,  but  she  said  nothing  to  cast  the 
cloud  of  doubt  over  Zepherine's  hopes.  As  for 
Mr.  Sanders,  he  was  of  the  opinion,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it,  that  if  there  wasn't  but  one  chance 
in  a  hundred,  it  was  a  mighty  big  chance;  and 
then  he  went  on  to  philosophize  about  it,  re- 
[103] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

marking  that,  through  his  neighbors  and  ac 
quaintances,  a  man  is  brought  in  mighty  close 
touch  with  the  rest  of  the  world;  "  them  that 
one  man  don't  know  the  rest  on  'em  does,  an' 
so  on  an'  so  on  an'  so  forth,  world  wi'out  eend." 

In  fine,  Mr.  Sanders,  who  was  of  a  very  san 
guine  temperament,  gave  little  Miss  Johns 
great  cause  to  hope  that  Peter  Valicombe 
would  be  able  to  give  her  valuable  information 
of  some  sort.  Nevertheless,  Nan  Dorrington 
was  more  enthusiastic  than  all  of  them  put  to 
gether.  She  was  in  her  element  when  a  mys 
tery  was  on  foot.  She  was  perfectly  sure  that 
Mr.  Valicombe,  even  if  his  name  had  been 
changed,  could  tell  Zepherine  something  about 
her  father;  and  why  not  go  to  see  him  at  once? 
Yes,  why  not?  Nan  had  a  pair  of  shoes  that 
needed  new  soles,  and  she'd  have  them  fixed 
without  delay.  In  fact,  since  she  came  to  think 
about  it,  her  father  had  told  her  positively  to 
have  new  soles  placed  on  the  shoes,  and  she 
had  forgotten  all  about  it. 

The  case  became  very  urgent.  She  must 
[104] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

have  the  soles  on  at  once,  before  popsy  discov 
ered  that  she  had  failed  to  obey  him.  Nothing 
would  satisfy  her  but  an  immediate  visit  to  the 
shop  of  Mr.  Valicombe,  and  of  course  Zepher- 
ine  must  accompany  her.  When  this  was  all 
settled  Mr.  Sanders  said  he'd  go  along  to  keep 
Nan  straight  and  to  prevent  her  from  begging 
the  clerks  in  the  stores  for  candy.  Nan  made 
a  low  courtesy  to  Mr.  Sanders  and  thanked  him 
for  his  slander.  She  was  now  nearly  fourteen, 
and  whatever  she  had  done  when  she  was  a 
child,  she  would  have  everybody  to  know  that 
she  was  far  above  begging  candy  from  any  per 
son,  much  less  a  silly  clerk  in  a  store. 

Well,  the  trio  went  to  Mr.  Valicombe's  shop, 
and  he  was  not  there;  his  prosperity  had 
reached  such  a  point  that  he  was  able  to  em 
ploy  a  journeyman  or  two,  and  at  this  particular 
time  he  was  on  a  visit  to  his  old  home  in  New 
Orleans.  But  he  would  soon  be  back — if  not 
to-morrow,  certainly  the  next  day. 

Zepherine  was  plainly  disappointed,  and  Nan 
was  really  angry;  but  Mr.  Sanders  remarked 
[105] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

that  it  was  very  lucky  that  Peter  had  taken  a 
notion  to  go  back  home  on  a  visit.  It  might 
be,  he  said,  that  he  would  be  able  to  give  Miss 
Johns  the  very  latest  information  about  her 
pappy. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  Nan  made  it  her 
business  to  watch  the  old  stage-coach  as  it 
came  in  from  Malvern,  and  on  the  third  day 
she  noted  that  Mr.  Valicombe  arrived  in  it,  be 
ing  the  only  passenger.  He  had  no  sooner 
alighted  at  the  tavern  than  Nan  pounced  upon 
him,  and  blithely  informed  him  that  a  beautiful 
young  lady  had  been  trying  to  make  his  ac 
quaintance.  No;  she  wouldn't  tell  who  it  was, 
but  it  was  a  young  lady  who  spoke  French,  and 
who  intended  to  ask  Mr.  Valicombe  a  very  im 
portant  question,  and  he  must  be  sure  to  give 
her  a  favorable  answer.  Naturally  this  puzzled 
the  simple-minded  old  Frenchman,  and  this 
was  precisely  what  Nan,  delighting  in  mys 
teries,  had  intended  to  do. 

The  next  day,  when  Zepherine  and  Nan 
called  to  see  Mr.  Valicombe,  they  were  told 
[106] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

that  he  was  ill  in  bed  and  could  see  no  one.  A 
few  days  afterward,  Nan  having  failed  to  put  in 
an  appearance,  word  came  to  Shady  Dale  that 
she,  too,  was  ill;  and  this  news  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  announcement  that  she  had  the 
smallpox!  This  was  nothing  less  than  terrible. 
There  is  nothing  better  calculated  to  create  a 
panic  in  a  country  community  than  the  appear 
ance  of  smallpox,  and  it  was  well  for  Nan  that 
her  father  was  a  physician. 

But  where  did  the  disease  come  from?  How 
did  poor  Nan  take  the  infection?  It  was  the 
wonder  of  a  long  day,  until  it  was  discovered 
that  Peter  Valicombe,  who  had  been  ill  in  his 
room  for  several  days,  had  the  same  disease. 
You  may  well  believe  the  people  were  properly 
indignant  that  such  a  malignant  distemper 
should  have  been  brought  among  them.  It 
was  bad  enough  that  it  should  have  been 
brought  at  all;  but  that  it  should  have  been 
brought  by  a  foreigner  was  almost  past  endur 
ance.  There  was  some  pretty  hot  talk  by 
those  who  had  small  children;  but  Dr.  Ran- 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
dolph  Dorrington,  who,  if  anybody,  was  the 
one  to  complain,  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of 
course.  He  tried  to  quiet  the  fears  of  the 
foolish,  and  to  cool  the  anger  of  the  indig 
nant.  He  it  was  who  took  prompt  measures 
to  isolate  the  two  cases,  securing  for  that 
purpose  a  vacant  dwelling  in  the  outskirts  of 
town. 

It  was  a  tumbled-down  old  place,  to  all  out 
ward  appearances,  but  the  interior  was  all  that 
it  should  be.  The  rooms  were  large  and  well 
ventilated,  and  in  fact  it  was  precisely  such 
a  building  as  Dr.  Dorrington  would  have 
chosen,  even  if  he  had  had  the  choice  of  a 
dozen.  But  after  the  patients  had  been  re 
moved,  a  feat  which  the  Doctor  accomplished 
unaided  and  alone,  he  was  confronted  by  the 
most  serious  difficulty  of  all.  Who  was  to 
nurse  Nan?  And  if  Nan  found  a  nurse,  who 
was  to  nurse  poor  Peter  Valicombe?  It  was  a 
very  serious  matter;  and  while  he  was  sitting 
by  Nan's  bed,  trying  to  solve  the  problem,  he 
heard  a  light  step  in  the  hall,  and  the  next  mo- 
[108] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

ment  in  walked  little  Miss  Johns,  as  cool  as  a 
cucumber  and  as  fresh  as  a  daisy. 

"  Oh,  but  this  won't  do!  "  cried  Dorrington, 
as  Zepherine  started  to  Nan's  bedside.  "  You 
must  get  right  out!"  he  commanded.  His 
voice  was  stern,  and  indignation  sat  on  his 
countenance. 

"  But,  if  I  won't,"  she  said  with  a  smile, 
"  what  then?  "  She  took  off  her  hat  and  hung 
it  on  the  bedpost,  placed  her  bundle  of  clothes 
in  a  chair,  and  went  and  leaned  over  Nan,  who 
was  in  a  raging  fever,  and  rather  flighty  in  her 
mind.  All  this  was  done  so  quickly  and  so 
quietly  that  Dorrington  had  no  opportunity  to 
interfere  unless  he  could  have  made  up  his  mind 
promptly  to  use  forcible  means  to  eject  the 
young  woman  from  the  room.  She  placed  her 
hand  on  Nan's  brow,  and  in  a  few  moments 
the  child  ceased  to  mutter  and  throw  her  arms 
about. 

"  Now,  what  you  think?  "  said  little  Miss 
Johns,  turning  to  him  with  a  smile  of  tri 
umph. 


T'he  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Why,  I  think  you  arc  very  silly,"  he  replied, 
angrily. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  but 
she  rose  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  slapped  her, 

her  face  red  as  fire.  "  I  think  you "  She 

caught  herself,  and  then  her  face  became  very 
pale.  "  I  have  shame  for  you,"  she  said,  all 
trace  of  indignation  gone;  "  I  have  shame  for 
anyone  who  does  not  want  his  sick  child  to 
have  the  attention  of  her  friends.  Well,  then, 
if  that  is  your  feeling,  I  can  nurse  the  other — 
Monsieur  Valicombe.  Where  have  you  placed 
him?  " 

"  He  is  in  the  room  across  the  hall.  But 
why  do  you  come  here?  What  business  have 
you  here?  Have  you  thought  of  the  risk?  " 

"  You  have  no  need  to  take  off  my  head," 
she  replied.  "  If  I  say  what  I  think,  it  will 
make  your  ears  burn.  Go  get  me  some — some 
— what  you  call  this  grease  that  is  on  the  pig 
skin  when  it  has  been  in  the  smoke?  " 

Angry  as  he  was,  Dorrington  was  compelled 
to  laugh  at  this  description  of  bacon  rind,  and 

[1 10] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

his  smiles  made  Zepherine  angrier  than  ever, 
for  she  was  very  sensitive  about  her  ignorance 
of  English.  "  I  don't  care  if  you  get  it  or 
not! "  she  exclaimed. 

But  the  Doctor  made  haste  to  do  as  he  was 
bid,  feeling  that  he  was  in  no  wise  responsible 
in  the  matter.  He  had  given  the  foolish  girl 
fair  warning.  But  had  he?  He  paused  on  the 
threshold  on  his  way  out  and  reflected.  Did 
the  girl  know  it  was  smallpox?  Did  she  know 
that  smallpox  was  infectious — dangerously  ma 
lignant?  He  returned  to  the  room  and  put  the 
questions  as  they  occurred  to  him.  The  only 
answer  he  got  was:  "  Oh,  silly!  Will  you  get 
the  laughable  pigskin? "  He  regarded  her 
with  amazement.  Dr.  Randolph  Dorrington's 
friends  and  acquaintances  were  not  in  the  habit 
of  dealing  with  him  in  this  cavalier  manner. 
Usually,  he  stood  very  much  on  his  dignity. 
He  shuddered  to  think  that  Mr.  Billy  Sanders 
might  hear  of  the  little  passage-at-arms  and  re 
port  it  about  town.  But  the  truth  of  it  never 
came  to  Mr.  Sanders's  ears.  As  for  Zepherine, 
[in] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

she  was  far  more  on  her  dignity  than  he  was 
when  he  saw  her  again. 

When  he  returned  with  the  bacon  rind  Nan 
was  sound  asleep,  and  little  Miss  Johns  was  in 
the  room  with  Mr.  Valicombe,  and  the  two 
were  rattling  away  in  French  at  a  terrible  rate. 
Dr.  Dorrington  went  in  there,  after  looking 
at  Nan,  but  neither  one  paid  the  slightest  at 
tention  to  him.  He  might  have  been  in  Hali 
fax,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned.  Finally, 
he  asked  Mr.  Valicombe  if  he  didn't  think  that 
he  was  talking  too  much  for  a  man  in  his  con 
dition. 

"  If  'twas  in  English — yes,"  replied  Peter; 
"  but  in  French — oh,  no.  It  will  make  me 
well.  Oh,  I  am  much  better  at  once."  And  it 
seemed  to  be  true.  His  eyes  were  brighter, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  doing  better  every  way; 
but  Dorrington  thought  the  eyes  were  a  little 
too  bright,  the  voice  a  little  too  strong,  and  he 
said  so  very  curtly,  as  Zepherine  thought. 

It  turned  out  that  the  Doctor  was  right.  In 
a  short  time  Mr.  Valicombe  showed  symp- 

[112] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

toms  of  a  slight  relapse,  and  from  that  time 
forth  it  required  the  most  patient  and  pains 
taking  nursing  to  keep  the  breath  in  his  body. 
It  was  fortunate  for  both  the  victims  of  the  in 
fection  that  they  had  little  Miss  Johns  to  nurse 
them,  and  it  was  even  more  fortunate  that 
this  young  woman  had  been  taught  how  to 
nurse  the  sick  by  the  good  Sisters  at  the  con 
vent.  Her  art  in  this  matter  was  a  revelation 
to  Dorrington,  who  had  an  idea  that  all  the 
trained  nurses  of  that  period  were  to  be  found 
in  the  large  hospitals,  in  some  of  which  he  had 
practised  when  he  was  studying  his  profession. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  vitality  of  the  girl  was 
abnormally  developed.  No  matter  how  long 
she  had  been  on  her  feet  during  the  day,  no 
matter  how  much  sleep  she  had  lost,  a  sigh 
from  Nan  would  bring  her  to  the  child's  bed 
side  in  a  flash,  and  she  was  as  prompt  with 
poor  Peter  Valicombe. 

It  was  a  trying  time  when  she  had  to  tie 
Nan's  hands  to  prevent  her  from  scratching  her 
face  to  pieces.  But  she  was  heartless  in  this 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

matter;  no  entreaty  could  move  her.  The 
father  ceased  to  be  a  physician  when  Nan's 
pleadings  reached  their  height.  "  You  must 
untie  her  hands,"  he  declared. 

"  Oh,  must  I?"  she  exclaimed  with  heat. 
"  Then  why  not  make  me?  I  dare  you!  "  she 
exclaimed,  as  he  took  a  step  forward  to  release 
the  poor  red  hands.  "  Why  not  go  about  your 
business?  You  are  doing  nothing  but  harm 
here."  Dr.  Dorrington  was  not  used  to 
such  treatment  as  this,  and  the  fact  that  it  was 
unprecedented  in  his  experience  since  Matthew 
Clopton  used  to  order  him  around,  left  him 
with  nothing  to  fall  back  upon  but  his  delicate 
consideration  for  the  views  and  feelings  of  the 
fair  sex.  He  paused,  regarded  the  young 
woman  curiously,  and  then  turned  away  and 
sat  down. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  go  into  all  the  details  of 
the  treatment  which  Zepherine's  patients  re 
ceived  at  her  hands.  For  one  thing,  she  flatly 
refused  to  carry  out  the  Doctor's  orders  with 
respect  to  some  matter  which  he  deemed  im- 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

portant;  she  insisted  on  having  her  own  way, 
and  in  almost  every  instance  it  turned  out  to  be 
the  better  way.  This  was  especially  true  of  her 
treatment  of  poor  Peter  Valicombe.  Dr.  Dor- 
rington  had  told  her  more  than  once  that  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  for  Mr.  Valicombe 
to  recover.  Zepherine,  however,  insisted  that 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  re 
cover;  she  clung  to  the  idea,  and  worked  in  the 
light  of  it,  and  finally  her  faith  was  rewarded. 
Mr.  Valicombe  became  convalescent,  and  at 
the  first  fitting  opportunity  the  Doctor  had, 
when  Zepherine  was  out  of  hearing,  he  told  the 
patient  that  he  owed  his  life  to  Miss  Johns. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Valicombe; 
"  she  lose  nothing  by  that.  I  will  make  her 
very  glad  of  it." 

It  will  be  readily  believed  that  Dr.  Randolph 
Dorrington,  though  he  was  very  popular,  per 
sonally,  with  everybody  in  the  county,  made 
no  social  visits  while  he  had  charge  of  these 
victims  of  the  infection.  But  when  he  did  re 
sume  the  regular  practice  of  his  profession,  all 


if  he  Making  of  a  Statesman 

danger  of  the  spread  of  the  disease  being  over, 
he  had  to  put  up  with  a  very  severe  lecture 
from  the  ready  tongue  of  Mr.  Billy  Sanders. 

"  I  declare,  Randolph,  I'm  ashamed  of  you; 
be  jigged  ef  I  ain't!  Why,  supposin'  that  lit 
tle  forrin  gal  had  V  took  the  smallpox  an'  'a' 
died?  Wouldn't  that  'a'  been  a  purty  piece  of 
business  for  you  to  stagger  around  under? 
Why,  in  the  name  of  charity,  didn't  you  ketch 
her  by  the  ear  an'  lead  her  out  of  the  room?  " 

"  Well,  I  heartily  wish  you  had  been  there 
to  carry  your  plan  out.  I  couldn't  do  a  thing 
with  her." 

"  Why,  I  could  tote  her  on  the  pa'm  of  my 
han',  Randolph;  she  ain't  bigger'n  a  sparrer," 
persisted  Mr.  Sanders.  "  Whyn't  you  put  her 
out  by  main  strength?  " 

"  Well,  there  are  several  reasons,"  respond 
ed  Dorrington.  "  One  is  that  she  slipped  in 
before  I  knew  she  was  within  a  mile  of  the 
place;  another  is,  that  she  had  hold  of  Nan's 
hands  before  I  had  any  idea  what  kind  of  a 
caper  she  was  going  to  cut;  but  the  real  reason 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

why  I  didn't  insist  on  driving  her  away  is,  that 
I  didn't  want  to  have  a  fight  with  a  woman." 

"  But,  Randolph,  that  child  is  as  shy  as  a 
flyin'  sqir'l,  an'  lots  gentler  than  old  Kate,  the 
nag  you  drive  to  your  buggy,"  Mr.  Sanders 
persisted,  but  there  was  a  sparkle  in  his  eye 
as  he  spoke.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Ran 
dolph,"  he  went  on,  "  that  that  child,  not  much 
bigger'n  a  hummin'-bird,  an'  mighty  nigh  as 
cute,  reelly  frailed  you  out  up  thar  whar  you 
couldn't  holler  for  help?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  say  that,"  replied  Dorrington, 
with  a  laugh;  "but  you  will  say  it,  and  I'll 
never  hear  the  last  of  it.  Well,  you  may  say 
what  you  please;  she's  a  very  brave  little 
woman,  and  the  best  nurse  I  have  ever  seen. 
There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  she  saved 
the  lives  of  Nan  and  Valicombe." 

"  That  bein'  the  case,  Randolph,  why  don't 
you  take  her  into  your  business  as  a  partner?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Sanders,  dryly. 

The  physician  laughed  at  the  suggestion. 
"  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  "  I  made  her  angry  the 
["7] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

moment  she  came  into  the  room,  and  she  has 
never  recovered  her  good-humor  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  I  honestly  believe  she  has  a 
contempt  for  me,  though  she's  wonderfully 
fond  of  Nan,  as  Nan  is  of  her." 

"  Maybe  it's  bekaze  you  haven't  apologized 
for  your  rowdyism  when  she  fust  made  herself 
prominent  as  a  self-nominated  candidate  for 
the  office  of  nurse  and  gener'l  super'ntendent 
of  smallpox  cases."  Mr.  Sanders  would  have 
his  joke. 


[118] 


777 

rO  say  that  the  little  French  shoemaker 
was  grateful  to  Zepherine  would  fall  far 
short  of  the  truth.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  she  was  an  angel  in  the  shape  of 
a  woman,  sent  specially  to  relieve  him  from 
pain  and  to  drag  him  back  to  life,  and  he  con 
ducted  himself  accordingly.  Not  a  Sunday 
afternoon  passed  that  he  did  not  stroll  out  to 
Shady  Dale  to  see  her.  He  was  quite  welcome 
there,  too,  for  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  shoemaker  he  had  the  refinement  and  good 
taste  that  seem  to  be  inseparable  from  the 
average  Frenchman;  and  there  was  a  simplic 
ity  about  him,  a  childlike  gentleness,  that  was 
very  pleasing  to  Sarah  Clopton.  He  came  and 
went  so  quietly  that  Mr.  Sanders  was  moved 
to  say  that  he  went  about  as  if  he  were  a  flake 
of  thistledown. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  visits  that  Miss 
Johns  took  occasion  to  tell  Mr.  Valicombe 
["91 


<fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

why  she  had  come  so  far  from  home.  She 
told,  also,  of  her  father;  how  he  had  gone 
away  from  home,  and  how  she,  too,  had  come 
away  to  find  him.  Some  day,  she  said,  she 
would  be  able  to  go  to  New  Orleans,  where 
she  knew  her  dear  father  was.  At  this,  Mr. 
Valicombe  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  French 
men  will,  and  told  her  that  New  Orleans  was  a 
very  large  city;  a  city  where  there  were  many 
people  of  all  tongues.  Whereupon  Zepherine 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  too,  and  the  gesture 
was  very  cunning,  saying  that,  no  matter  how 
large  the  town  might  be,  or  how  many  people 
were  there,  the  good  God  would  enable  her  to 
find  her  dear  father.  To  this  Mr.  Valicombe 
very  readily  assented.  It  might  be  so,  cer 
tainly. 

But  as  the  cooler  weather  drew  on  there 
came  a  time  when  the  visits  of  Mr.  Valicombe 
ceased.  This  was  very  pleasing  to  Nan  Dor- 
rington,  who  was  a  little  jealous  of  the  French 
man.  Since  her  illness  she  was  more  devoted 
to  Zepherine  than  ever.  In  fact,  she  was  never 
[120] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

happy  away  from  her.  And  Nan  was  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  There  was  not  a  mark  on 
her  face  to  show  that  she  had  ever  suffered 
from  that  terrible  disease,  and  it  was  all  owing 
to  Zepherine.  This  was  what  Nan's  father 
said,  and  of  course  it  must  be  so. 

And  yet,  between  Nan's  father  and  Zepher 
ine  a  terrible  state  of  affairs  existed.  This  was 
owing  in  part  to  the  jovial  Mr.  Sanders,  and  in 
part  to  the  misunderstanding  that  had  arisen 
when  Zepherine  had  made  her  unexpected  ap 
pearance  as  a  volunteer  nurse.  When  Zepher 
ine  returned  home  Mr.  Sanders  was  the  first  to 
greet  her,  and  his  greeting  brought  the  blood 
to  her  face. 

"  Why,  hello,  honey!  "  he  exclaimed;  "  I'm 
mighty  glad  to  see  you  lookin'  so  well.  They 
tell  me,"  he  declared,  "  that  you  frailed  out  the 
Doctor  e'en  about  as  soon  as  you  got  in  the 
door  of  the  pest-house.  Well,  I'm  mighty 
glad  to  hear  it;  he's  been  needin'  somethin'  of 
that  sort  for  a  long  time." 

"Frail!    What  is  frail?"  inquired  Zepher- 
[121] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

ine,  albeit  she  had  a  dim  conception  of  her  own 
that  it  meant  a  dispute. 

Mr.  Sanders  laughed.  "  I  bet  you  that  Ran 
dolph  knows  what  it  means,"  he  replied;  "  an' 
you  couldn't  a-whaled  a  chap  that  deserved  it 


Whale?     Oh,   I   don't   know  what  you 


mean." 


Mr.  Sanders  was  compelled  to  go  off  some 
where  by  himself  to  have  his  laugh  out,  as  he 
expressed  it,  and  Zepherine  was  forced  to  fall 
back  on  Sarah  Clopton  for  an  explanation. 
When  the  explanation  was  given  it  quite  took 
Zepherine's  breath  away. 

"  Oh,  I  was  very  rude  to  him,"  she  said, 
weeping  a  little  and  blushing  a  great  deal. 
"  But  how  could  I  do?  He  was  also  rude.  He 
would  drive  me  away  when  I  go  to  take  care 
of  his  own  child." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  he  didn't  want  you  to  catch 
the  disease,"  Sarah  Clopton  explained. 

"  But  if  I  catch  it,  what  is  that  to  him?  "  cried 
Zepherine  with  some  show  of  indignation.  "  If 

[122] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

he  have  it,  I  won't  take  care  of  him — un 
less — "  She  paused  and  gave  Sarah  Clopton 
a  swift  glance. 

"  Unless  what?  " 

"  Unless  you  or  Nan  want  me  to  go  there." 
The  older  woman  regarded  Zepherine  with  a 
curious  smile,  and  she  continued  to  smile  after 
the  girl  had  gone  for  her  embroidery-frame. 

Whatever  the  smile  may  have  meant,  it  had 
no  effect  on  Zepherine,  for  whenever  Dorring- 
ton  came  to  Shady  Dale,  which  was  often,  the 
young  woman  promptly  disappeared,  and  was 
seen  no  more  until  after  his  departure.  More 
than  once  he  made  inquiries  about  her,  and  on 
one  occasion  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  her  for 
the  purpose  of  apologizing  for  his  rudeness. 

"  Why,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  rude  to  the 
child,  Randolph,"  remarked  Sarah  Clopton 
when  he  mentioned  the  matter.  "  She  thinks 
that  she  was  rude  to  you." 

"  Well,  only  properly  so.     I  was  irritated 
when  she  came  into  that  house,  but  not  for 
long.    I  soon  found  that  she  knows  more  about 
[123] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

the  treatment  of  smallpox  than  I  do.  But  the 
way  she  treated  me  would  have  made  Mr.  San 
ders  smile.  She  threw  my  medicine  out  of  the 
window,  and  refused  positively  to  follow  my 
directions;  and  yet  Nan  tells  me  she's  the 
timidest,  gentlest  little  thing  in  the  world.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  understand  her  at  all." 

"  No,  Randolph,  you  don't;  and  it's  better 
that  you  shouldn't.  The  surest  defence  we 
women  have  is  the  fact  that  no  man  can  under 
stand  us.  If  it  were  otherwise,  the  world 
would  be  quite  topsy-turvy  in  a  very  short 
while." 

There  was  small  satisfaction  to  be  drawn 
from  this  remark,  in  spite  of  its  wisdom,  but 
Dorrington  had  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Later, 
when  Sarah  Clopton  informed  Zepherine  that 
the  Doctor  had  made  inquiries  for  her,  she 
raised  her  eyebrows  in  astonishment. 

"Forme?"  she  cried. 

"  Yes;  he  said  he  wanted  to  apologize,"  re 
plied  the  older  woman,  dryly. 

"  Apologize  to  me !  "  exclaimed  Zepherine. 
[124] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

"  Well,  poor  man !  if  he  know  nothing  of 
smallpox,  and  know  not  who  should  apologize, 
he  must  have  a  deep  trouble  somewhere.  I  am 
quite  sorrowful  for  him."  Whereupon  the 
young  woman  laughed  scornfully,  thereby  ex 
hibiting  a  new  phase  of  her  character,  as  a  man 
would  have  thought.  But  Sarah  Clopton,  be 
ing  a  woman,  renewed  the  dry  smile  with  which 
she  had  regarded  Zepherine  on  a  former  occa 
sion.  This  time,  however,  Zepherine  saw  it, 
and  seemed  to  divine  its  import.  "  Oh,  now 
you  are  laughing  at  me! "  she  cried,  blushing 
violently.  "  I  am  very  foolish;  I  cannot  tell 
why  your  Doctor  Randolph  cause  me  to  be  so 
out  of  temper  all  the  time,  day  and  night." 

"  Why,  he's  not  nearly  so  important  as  that," 
replied  Sarah  Clopton;  "he's  nothing  but  a 
great,  big,  blundering,  good-natured  man." 

Zepherine  tossed  her  head  and  her  eyes 
flashed.  "  Well,  I  wish  I  could  see  some  of 
that  great  good-nature,"  she  said,  scornfully. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  thinking  you'll  have 
plenty  of  opportunities,"  the  older  woman  sug- 
[125] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

gested.  "After  a  while  you'll  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Randolph  is  not  important 
enough  for  you  to  jump  up  and  run  away  every 
time  you  hear  his  footstep  on  the  gravel  out 
side.  He's  been  coming  here  regularly  many 
years,  but  I've  never  taken  the  trouble  to  try 
to  distinguish  his  footstep  from  that  of  other 
people." 

"  Oh,  but  if  you  were  in  my  place,"  said 
Zepherine,  blushing;  "  if  you  had  heard  him 
walking  as  I  did,  all  through  the  long  night, 
while  Nan  was  so  ill — well,  I  think  you  would 
know  his  step  when  you  heard  it.  I  know 
yours,  and  I  know  Nan's.  I  don't  think  it  is  so 
hard  to  know  the  step  of  those  you — oh,  I  mean 
those  you  like  or  dislike;  do  you  think  so?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Sarah  Clopton; 
"  but  I  have  had  so  many  things  to  think  about, 
you  know,  that  I  haven't  had  time  to  study  the 
sounds  of  my  friends'  footsteps." 

"  But  there  are  some  things  you  must  think 
of,  no  matter  what  you  may  be  doing,"  Zeph 
erine  insisted. 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

"Certainly,"  Sarah  Clopton  replied;  "but 
that  is  different." 

Zepherine  twisted  her  fingers  together,  a 
sure  sign  of  perplexity,  saying,  "  If  I  could 
think  in  English,  you  would  know  what  I 


mean." 


"  Oh,  I  think  I  could  guess,"  said  the  older 
woman,  tapping  Miss  Johns  on  her  glowing 
cheek.  "  Yonder  is  Nan;  run  and  meet  her. 
I  think  you  need  more  exercise.  You  mustn't 
become  a  mope  at  your  age." 

Zepherine  was  only  too  glad  of  an  excuse  to 
get  away  from  this  friend,  who  had  suddenly 
developed  a  desire  to  tease;  and  she  made  haste 
to  meet  Nan.  Now,  this  rompish  creature  did 
not  allow  her  good  digestion  and  her  buoyant 
health  to  interfere  with  her  romantic  tenden 
cies.  She  found  mysteries  in  the  commonest 
events  of  life,  and  a  good  part  of  the  time  she 
dwelt  in  a  world  of  her  own  creation,  in  which 
she  could  indulge  in  any  kind  of  adventure,  and 
where  all  her  dreams  could  come  true. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  Zepherine,  she  threw  up 
[127] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

her  hands  with  a  shrill  scream  of  delight.  She 
had  the  most  delicious  mystery,  and  she  just 
knew  it  would  turn  out  to  be  a  real  and  truly 
true  romance.  She  had  gone  around  to  Mr. 
Valicombe's  shop  to  find  out  why  he  didn't 
come  to  Shady  Dale  any  more,  and  one  of  the 
men  there — he  had  two  now — had  told  her  that 
Mr.  Valicombe  was  not  in  town  at  all ;  that  he 
had  gone  to  New  Orleans,  and  that  he  didn't 
propose  to  return  until — at  this  point  she  placed 
both  hands  over  her  mouth  and  gave  Zepherine 
a  wild  look. 

"  What,  then,  is  the  matter  with  you?  Why 
do  you  begin  to  tell  something,  and  then  pause 
in  that  way?  "  inquired  the  thoroughly  puzzled 
Miss  Johns. 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  tell  you,  but  I  mustn't.  Oh, 
Mr.  Sanders  would  never  forgive  me.  Indeed 
he  wouldn't ;  he  told  me  so.  It  is  the  most  per 
fectly  lovely  idea  I  ever  heard  of;  but  you  must 
promise  never  to  ask  me  about  it.  If  you  don't, 
I  shall  have  to  go  away  somewhere,  and  stay." 

"But  what  can  it  be?  Is  it  about  me?" 
[128] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

As  she  spoke,  Miss  Johns  began  to  blush  even 
as  she  blushed  before  Sarah  Clopton. 

Nan  paid  no  attention  to  the  blushes.  She 
simply  placed  a  hand  over  her  mouth  and 
shook  her  head.  When  she  did  speak,  she  pre 
tended  to  be  angry.  "  You  know  I  am  just 
dying  to  tell  you,  and  you  are  asking  me  about 
it  when  I  begged  you  not  to.  Oh,  if  you 
knew  how  wild  I  am  you  wouldn't  dare  to 
ask  me!" 

"  Dare!  It  is  something  terrible,  then,"  said 
Miss  Johns,  her  face  becoming  pale.  "  Oh,  if 
you  care  for  me,  please  tell  me." 

Nan  seized  her  in  a  furious  embrace.  "  Oh, 
you  sweet  goose!  Oh,  you  dearest!  Don't 
drive  me  crazy.  I  could  tell  you  but  for  Mr. 
Sanders.  When  he  saw  me  coming  from  the 
shoemaker's  he  called  me,  and  asked  me  how 
much  I  knew  about  Somebody,  and  I  pretend 
ed  to  know  a  great  deal,  and  I  kept  on  hinting 
and  asking  him  how  much  he  knew.  And,  oh, 
it's  the  most  wonderful  thing!  "  Up  went  the 
hand  to  the  mouth  again,  and  nothing  that  Miss 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

Johns  could  say  or  do  had  the  effect  of  inducing 
Nan  to  tell  what  she  knew. 

The  fall  drifted  into  winter  without  produc 
ing  any  change  in  the  season.  In  the  almanac, 
especially  Grier's,  December  is  put  down  as  a 
winter  month;  but  in  middle  Georgia,  in  1860, 
it  paraded  itself  as  the  sister  of  June;  the  roses 
bloomed,  the  birds  sang,  and  the  apple-trees, 
mistaking  the  portents,  began  to  clothe  them 
selves  with  blossoms.  The  sun  shone  with  the 
warmth  of  spring,  and  the  delicately  crisp 
breezes  were  laden  with  the  odors  of  the  season 
of  flowers.  It  was  a  respite  to  be  thankful  for. 
There  were  days  of  such  perfection  and  beauty 
that  the  dullest  man  could  not  fail  to  perceive 
that  he  had  something  to  be  thankful  for;  it 
was  an  experience  that  would  hardly  occur 
twice  in  a  generation. 

Well,  it  was  upon  the  balmy  wings  of  this 
perfect  season  that  the  days  drifted  toward 
Christmas;  and  when  that  day  was  near,  the 
word  went  around,  as  we  say  in  Georgia,  that 
Mr.  Valicombe,  the  shoemaker,  had  returned 
[130] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

to  the  village.  He  had  not  come  upon  the 
stage-coach,  Nan  was  certain  of  that,  for  it  was 
her  daily  privilege,  in  good  weather  or  bad,  to 
take  particular  note  of  the  passengers,  whether 
they  were  few  or  many.  No,  he  had  not  been 
a  passenger  on  the  stage-coach.  In  Malvern 
he  had  hired  a  conveyance,  and  had  timed  his 
start  from  that  city  so  as  to  arrive  at  Harmony 
Grove  after  nightfall;  and  the  driver,  who  had 
his  supper  at  the  tavern,  declared  that  Mr.  Val- 
icombe  had  brought  a  companion  with  him. 
This  driver  further  said  that  the  two  passengers 
talked  outlandish;  they  talked  all  the  way,  and 
he  couldn't  understand  a  word  they  said.  He 
didn't  know  whether  they  were  planning  to 
knock  him  in  the  head  and  take  the  carriage 
and  team,  or  what  they  were  going  to  do.  For 
his  part,  he  didn't  want  to  haul  no  more  out 
landish  folks,  not  if  he  could  help  himself. 

The  day  after  his  return  Mr.  Valicombe  ap 
peared  to  be  in  very  high  spirits.     He  saw  Mr. 
Sanders  on  the  street  and  called  to  him,  and 
after  the  two  had  talked  together  for  a  few  mo- 
[131] 


'the  Making  of  a  Statesman 

ments,  they  went  to  Mr.  Valicombe's  shop,  and 
there  they  had  another  consultation,  which 
lasted  an  hour  or  two.  After  that  they  went  to 
the  tavern,  where  Mr.  Sanders  made  a  very 
peculiar  inquiry.  He  asked  if  anybody  had  seen 
Nan  Dorrington.  Well,  of  course,  somebody 
had  seen  her,  but  nobody  knew  where  she  was 
at  that  particular  moment;  she  might  be  at 
Shady  Dale,  or  at  Miss  Puella  Gillum's,  or 
romping  about  in  the  woods,  or  she  might  be 
drilling  her  military  company,  a  justly  famous 
corps,  composed  of  raggedy-taggedy  little  ne 
groes.  Home  was  the  last  place  to  look  for 
Nan,  but  she  happened  to  be  there  when  the 
two  men  went  by  on  their  way  to  Shady  Dale. 
They  called  for  her,  and  then  the  three  went  on 
their  way;  which  caused  Mrs.  Absalom  Good- 
lett,  Dorrington's  housekeeper,  to  remark  that 
there  would  certainly  be  war  if  old  Billy  San 
ders,  the  Dutchman,  and  Nan  were  going 
around  plotting  against  the  whites.  The  pe 
culiarity  of  this  good  woman  was  that  she  al 
ways  abused  her  friends  and  spoke  well  of  those 
[132] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

she  didn't  like,  so  that  it  became  a  common 
saying  in  that  neighborhood,  when  a  person 
went  wrong,  that  he  was  earning  the  praise  of 
Mrs.  Absalom. 

This  good  woman,  watching  from  her  win 
dow,  saw  the  three  plotters  stop  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  and  stand  there  talking.  Then,  all 
of  a  sudden  she  saw  Nan  jump  at  the  shoe 
maker  and  throw  her  arms  around  him.  This 
done,  the  child  seized  Mr.  Sanders  by  both 
hands,  and  tried  to  swing  him  around  in  a  wild 
dance.  Owing  to  circumstances,  Mr.  Sanders 
was  not  swingable.  He  simply  turned  on  his 
heels  and  allowed  Nan  to  whirl  around  him, 
and  when  she  had  finished  this  series  of  gyra 
tions,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  rotund 
figure  and  gave  him  a  good  squeezing.  Mrs. 
Absalom  concluded  that  there  must  be  a  very 
serious  plot  on  the  part  of  the  disaffected  pop 
ulation;  but  she  laughed  softly  to  herself,  for 
whatever  pleased  Nan,  delighted  Mrs.  Ab., 
though  she  didn't  like  to  see  her  colloguing 
with  foreigners. 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

And  certainly  Nan  seemed  to  be  very  well 
pleased  this  time,  for  when  she  and  her  com 
panions  reached  Shady  Dale,  she  rushed  at  Miss 
Johns  and  came  near  smothering  her  with  hugs 
and  kisses,  and  she  repeated  the  same  perform 
ance  with  Sarah  Clopton;  for  the  child,  neither 
then  nor  at  any  period  of  her  life,  was  ashamed 
of  her  emotions. 

"Nan,  Nan!  you  are  smothering  me!" 
cried  Sarah  Clopton,  struggling  and  laughing. 
"What  does  it  mean?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?"  exclaimed  Nan; 
"  it's  only  two  days  to  Christmas.  Nonny  " — 
her  pet  name  for  Mrs.  Absalom — "  was  saying 
t'other  day  that  if  this  spell  of  weather  keeps 
up  we'll  have  ripe  peaches  on  April  Fool's  day 
and  figs  in  May." 

This  being  a  matter  beyond  dispute,  Nan's 
small  audience  could  only  laugh  at  her  enthusi 
asm.  However,  when  no  one  else  was  look 
ing,  Mr.  Sanders  winked  and  Mr.  Valicombe 
shrugged  his  shoulders  after  the  manner  of  his 
people.  And  then — how  it  was  done  no  one 
[134] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

seemed  to  know — Nan  inveigled  Miss  Johns 
into  taking  a  walk;  whereupon  Mr.  Sanders,  re 
inforced  and  supported  by  Mr.  Valicombe's  elo 
quent  shoulders  and  hands,  gave  Sarah  Clopton 
to  understand  that  it  was  the  desire  of  certain 
influential  individuals  to  set  out  a  Christmas- 
tree  for  the  especial  pleasure  of  Miss  Johns. 

"  Are  you  deserting  Nan?  "  the  lady  asked. 

"  By  no  manner  of  means,"  replied  Mr.  San 
ders.  "  Nan  is  to  be  the  ring-master,  an'  me 
an'  Peter  will  be  the  trick  clowns,  as  you  may 
say.  Anyhow,  Sarah,  you're  likely  to  1'arn 
something  from  this  tree.  The  fruit  it'll  b'ar 
will  surprise  you  might'ly.  It's  a  new  variety. 
I  seed  one  in  Injianny  when  I  was  wi'  my  Hart 
kinnery.  You  know,  Sarah,  we  ain't  used  to 
'em  down  here;  we  jest  hang  up  our  stockin's 
in  the  chimbley  jam,  an'  trust  to  luck  for  to  find 
somethin'  in  'em  the  next  mornin'.  I've  seed 
the  time  when  old  Sandy  Claus  gi'  me  the 
go-by,  but  he  can't  walk  around  the  tree  we're 
gwine  to  plant  here." 

"  Well,  what  kind  of  present  will  you  give 

[135] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

the  child?  "  Sarah  Clopton  inquired.  "  I  have 
a  number  of  things  to  give  her,  and  I've  been 
trying  to  think  of  some  way  to  surprise  her 
pleasantly.  I  confess  I  like  the  old  way  the 
best.  I'm  a  great  believer  in  Santa  Claus,  old 
as  I  am,  and  I  once  took  it  for  granted  that  all 
girls  are  alike  in  that  respect.  But  it  is  not  so. 
Zepherine  tells  me  that  among  her  people, 
Christmas  is  a  religious  celebration,  and  the 
giving  of  presents  is  reserved  for  New  Year's, 
when  the  young  people  come  from  far  and 
near  to  kneel  before  their  parents  and  ask 
their  blessing." 

"  Yes,  yes!  that  is  so,"  said  Mr.  Valicombe. 
"  It  is  the  old,  the  very  old  habitude." 

"  Well,  it's  mighty  different  here,"  remarked 
Mr.  Sanders.  "  In  this  State  an'  section,  even 
the  half-grown  children  give  their  parients  a 
blessin'  out  any  day  in  the  year;  an'  they  are  so 
superior  to  them  that  raised  'em  that  they  seem 
to  git  along  mighty  well  wi'out  a  blessin'  of  any 
kind.  But  that's  a  gray  hoss  of  another  color. 
This  is  a  case  whar  we  can't  hang  up  stockin's, 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

an'  even  bags  is  barred.  One  of  the  presents 
we'll  have  the  honor  to  give  the  young  lady  has 
got  so  many  sharp  eends  and  cornders  that  it 
can't  be  shoved  into  anything  less'n  a  hogshead. 
Havin'  no  hogshead,  we'll  have  to  stand  it  up 
by  the  tree;  an'  so,  ef  thar's  no  objection  from 
the  attorney  for  the  plaintiff,  we'll  agree  on  the 
tree,  and  call  in  the  next  witness.  I  know  right 
whar  thar's  a  mighty  bushy  bush  that'll  jest 
meet  our  views." 

And  so  the  matter  was  arranged.  That  after 
noon  the  tree,  a  lusty  young  holly,  with  a  rank 
growth  of  foliage,  was  brought  in  from  the 
woods  and  concealed  in  the  carriage-house. 
The  next  day  there  were  various  mysterious 
consultations  going  on.  Miss  Johns  was  with 
Nan,  and  if  she  observed  anything  out  of  the  or 
dinary,  she  gave  no  sign.  But  the  day  before 
Christmas  she  could  hardly  fail  to  note  that 
something  extraordinary  was  on  foot.  Nan 
was  not  visible,  and  when  Miss  Johns  would 
play  on  the  piano  she  found  the  parlor  door 
locked,  and,  pausing  a  moment,  she  heard  muf- 

[137] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

fled  and  mysterious  sounds  within.  For  a  sec 
ond — oh,  it  was  the  briefest  moment — a  sharp 
pang  of  loneliness  (or  was  it  jealousy?)  seized 
and  took  possession  of  her;  and  then,  in  a  flash, 
she  remembered  her  pleasant  surroundings, 
and  all  that  had  been  done  to  make  her  happy. 
There  were  other  things  she  remembered,  too 
— things  that  brought  a  heightened  color  to 
her  face,  and  caused  her  sensitive  lips  to  quiver. 
She  told  herself  that  though  she  ought  to  be 
happy,  she  was  not  happy  at  all.  She  wanted 
to  go  away,  but  durst  not.  Oh,  there  were 
times  when  a  wild  and  frightened  heart  was 
fluttering  in  that  innocent  bosom — especially 
when  Randolph  Dorrington's  step  was  heard 
on  the  gravelled  walk. 

She  turned  away  from  the  parlor  door.  If 
there  was  nothing  else  she  could  do,  she  could 
finish  a  piece  of  lace  she  was  making;  so  she 
took  her  work  and  sat  out  of  doors  in  the  pleas 
ant  sunshine.  Nan,  who  had  been  set  to  watch 
all  of  Zepherine's  movements,  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "  Thank  goodness !  "  she  cried.  "  Now 
[138] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

I  can  go  into  the  parlor  without  climbing  in  at 
the  window." 

With  Miss  Johns  out  of  sight  and  hearing, 
the  work  of  arranging  for  the  Christmas-tree 
went  on  rapidly  —  the  house-servants  being 
called  in  to  assist — and  it  was  soon  over  with. 
Then  the  bustle  ceased,  and  the  house  once 
more  became  a  serene  haven  of  rest  and  repose. 
The  parlor-door  was  locked  and  Mr.  Sanders 
had  the  key. 


[139] 


morning  dawned  bright 
and  beautiful.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in 
the  sky  or  a  hint  of  frost  in  the  air.  The 
mocking-birds  were  singing  in  the  orchard, 
and  the  blue-jays  were  vigorously  chiding  a 
gray  squirrel  in  one  of  the  big  oaks.  An  early 
breakfast  was  the  rule  at  Shady  Dale,  and 
Christmas  morning  was  no  exception.  The 
negroes  were  crowding  around  the  back  door, 
ready  to  cry  out,  "  Christmas  gift !  "  to  all  who 
came  in  sight.  Then  Sarah  Clopton  made  her 
appearance,  and  the  negroes  were  soon  in  pos 
session  of  the  presents  intended  for  them;  and 
not  one  was  forgotten,  from  the  oldest  to  the 
youngest. 

Following    this    came    the    justly    famous 

Christmas-tree,  which  Mr.  Sanders  regarded  as 

his  own  particular  property.     He  it  was  who 

threw  open  the  door  of  the  parlor,  remarking 

[140] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

that  he  was  not  only  tyler  of  the  lodge,  but 
special  bailiff  as  well.  The  room  presented  a 
very  beautiful  appearance.  The  heavy  red  cur 
tains  had  been  drawn  together  to  exclude  the 
light  of  day.  The  illumination  came  from  the 
six  big  candlesticks  that  had  done  duty  in  the 
Clopton  family  for  many  generations.  The 
Christmas-tree,  also,  bore  a  burden  of  small 
candles  attached  to  its  boughs,  and  was  further 
more  loaded  with  packages  of  various  shapes 
and  sizes.  It  made  a  very  brave  show,  indeed. 
It  was  placed  at  one  end  of  the  large  room,  be 
ing  flanked  on  either  side  by  curtains  which 
completely  concealed  the  corners. 

From  behind  one  of  these  curtains  came 
Peter  Valicombe,  who  said  that  everything  was 
ready.  Then  turning  to  Miss  Johns,  he  said 
in  French:  "  Mademoiselle,  will  you  please 
play  for  us  one  of  the  songs  you  heard  when  a 
child,  one  that  your  good  father  taught  you?  " 

Zepherine  hesitated,  her  hands  clasped  to 
gether.  "But  why?"  she  asked;  and  then, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  went  to  the 

[HI] 


cfhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

piano,  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  began  a  lilting 
melody  that  her  father  had  composed  for  his 
violin.  It  was  very  beautiful,  but  few  among 
those  who  were  listening  heard  it  to  the  end. 
The  curtains  behind  the  Christmas-tree  slowly 
parted,  and  a  stranger  made  his  appearance. 
He  moved  toward  the  piano,  smiling.  His  hair 
was  white  as  snow,  but  his  face  was  that  of  a 
man  in  the  prime  of  life.  His  features  were 
at  once  fine  and  strong,  and  his  eyes  were 
brilliant. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  "  exclaimed  the  impul 
sive  Nan.  Zepherine  thought  she  was  enrapt 
ured  by  the  melody,  but  Nan  was  no  longer  lis 
tening  to  the  piano. 

For  some  reason  or  other  which  he  never 
could  explain  to  himself,  Randolph  Dorrington 
stepped  forward  and  took  the  stranger  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  nearer  the  piano.  And  right 
here  Nature  stepped  in  and  destroyed  the 
dramatic  scene  which  poor  Peter  Valicombe 
had  arranged  for.  As  Flavian  Dion  listened  to 
his  own  music,  played  by  the  daughter  who  had 
[142] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

been  all  in  all  to  him,  he  broke  down;  the  tears 
began  to  roll  down  his  face.  He  fumbled  awk 
wardly  for  his  handkerchief,  saying:  "  I  beg 
you'  pardon;  that  ees  my  liT  girl;  that  ees  my 
HT  child.  I  have  seen  her,  oh,  not  for  many  a 
long  time." 

When  Zepherine  turned  around,  the  first 
thing  she  saw  was  Randolph  Dorrington  hold 
ing  the  hand  of 

Her  thoughts  flew  no  farther.  "  Oh,  what 
is  this?  "  she  cried.  But  there  was  no  need  to 
tell  her;  she  knew;  she  had  been  expecting 
something  like  this.  She  ran  into  her  father's 
arms  and  held  him  tightly,  while  he  stroked 
her  hair  and  fondled  her  face,  calling  her  by  all 
the  pet  names  that  were  dear  to  her  childhood's 
memory. 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Mr.  Sanders,  wiping  his 
eyes  with  his  big  red  "  hankcher,"  "  I  reckon 
we'd  just  as  well  postpone  the  case,  an*  leave 
the  witness  wi'  her."  He  went  out,  and  all  the 
rest  followed  his  example,  Sarah  Clopton  going 
last  and  closing  the  door  behind  her.  At  the 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

end  of  half  an  hour  Mr.  Sanders  knocked  on  the 
door,  stating  in  a  loud  voice,  and  with  the  in 
tonation  of  a  sheriff's  bailiff,  that  court  must 
now  be  opened  and  all  unfinished  business  con 
cluded.  The  door  was  opened  by  Zepherine, 
whose  happiness  had  somewhat  subdued  her. 
An  hour  before  she  was  a  girl,  but  now  she  was 
a  woman,  with  responsibility  tugging  at  her 
sleeve.  Not  one  of  her  friends  but  could  see 
the  change.  She  could  hardly  bear  to  leave 
her  father,  and  she  sat  holding  his  hand  and 
stroking  it,  and  frequently  looking  up  in  his 
face. 

Mr.  Sanders  went  to  the  tree,  saying:  "  Ef 
the  jury  is  ready,  we'd  jest  as  well  go  on  with 
this  case."  He  took  a  package  from  the  tree. 
"  For  Miss  Nan  Dorrington;  a  thrip's  wuth  of 
candy  from  an  old  lover.  An'  here's  a  letter 
marked  Zepherine.  It's  badly  spelt,  an'  they 
don't  seem  to  be  much  in  it." 

"  I  want  nothing  but  this,"  said  Zepher 
ine. 

"  Nothin'  but  the  letter?  Well,  here  it  is, 
[144] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

honey."  Mr.  Sanders  found  it  impossible  to 
restrain  his  humor. 

"  I  mean  I  want  nothing  but  my  father,"  re 
plied  Zepherine. 

"  Well,  he's  a  good  big  chunk  of  a  present," 
said  Mr.  Sanders;  and  then  he  went  on  distrib 
uting  the  presents  until  he  came  to  the  last, 
which  was  such  a  large  bundle  that  it  had  to 
be  placed  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  "  For  Will 
iam  H.  Sanders:  one  pa'r  of  second-hand  trou 
sers,  fresh  from  the  dry-goods  emporium  of 
Jake  Einstein."  He  unrolled  it,  and,  sure 
enough,  there  was  an  old  pair  of  trousers,  much 
the  worse  for  wear. 

In  the  midst  of  the  laughter  that  followed 
Sarah  Clopton  suddenly  asked  where  Randolph 
Dorrington  had  gone.  "  Well,"  replied  Mr. 
Sanders,  "  he  seed  that  nobody  was  sick 
enough  for  to  take  a  blue  pill,  or  a  doste  of 
jollup  an'  calomel,  an'  so  he  lit  out." 

"  He's  outside,"  said  Zepherine.  "  I  hear 
him  walking." 

Sarah  Clopton  observed  that  the  young 
[145] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

woman  had  opened  all  her  presents  save  one— 
the  first  she  had  received.  But  when  Peter 
Valicombe  came  and  sat  by  her  father  she  ex 
cused  herself.  She  ran  to  her  room  and  tore 
the  envelope  open.  It  contained  a  brief  note 
from  Randolph  Dorrington.  He  said  he  had 
long  sought  for  an  opportunity  to  apologize  for 
his  rudeness  on  the  occasion  of  Nan's  illness, 
and  would  she  kindly  permit  him  to  speak  with 
her  a  few  moments.  She  placed  the  note  in  her 
trunk,  and  then  stood  wringing  her  hands,  un 
certain  what  to  do.  She  looked  at  herself  in 
the  mirror,  and  made  a  mouth  at  the  reflection 
she  saw  there.  Then  she  went  out  upon  the 
veranda,  and  saw  Dorrington  sitting  on  one  of 
the  low  double  seats  scattered  about  the  lawn. 
She  hesitated,  but  finally  gulped  down  her  shy 
ness,  or  fear,  or  whatever  the  feeling  was,  and 
ran  down  the  steps,  and  went  toward  him. 
Dorrington  rose  to  meet  her,  hat  in  hand,  and 
wanted  her  to  be  seated,  but  she  shook  her 
head,  and  immediately  opened  the  attack. 
"  When  you  make  fun  of  me  as  you  do,  you 
[146] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

are  too  cruel,"  she  declared  indignantly.  "  You 
are  too  cruel  when  you  speak  to  me  of  apology. 
You  do  that  because  you  know  how  hurt  I  am 
because  of  the  way  I  spoke  to  you  when  Nan 
was  ill.  Yes,  I  think  it  is  cruel."  Tears  were 
in  her  eyes  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"  But,  Zepherine,"  he  said,  a  little  sadly,  "  I 
remember  nothing  but  my  own  rough  speech 
and  manner.  If  you  were  rude  you  had  a 
right  to  be.  But  isn't  there  some  excuse  for 
me?  Will  you  forgive  me?  " 

"  It  is  I  who  should  say  that,"  Zepherine  de 
clared,  but  Dorrington  noticed  that  she  was 
very  particular  to  leave  it  unsaid. 

"  You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  he 
insisted. 

"  Because  it  has  no  need  of  answer,"  she  re 
plied. 

"  Well,  I  will  ask  you  another  that  you  will 
be  compelled  to  answer,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  compelled !  "     She  smiled  at  him,  but 
there  was  trouble  in  the  smile.     "  I  will  be  com 
pelled.     Well,  that  is  different." 
[147] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Will  you  marry  me?  "  he  asked. 

«  Will  I "    All  the  color  left  her  face. 

"  Will  you  be  my  wife?  " 

"  Why,  you  must  be  in  great  trouble  if  you 
come  to  me.  Have  you  no  others  to  go  to?  " 
She  had  suddenly  recovered  her  composure, 
and  was  now,  to  use  one  of  Mr.  Sanders's  com 
parisons,  as  cool  as  a  cucumber. 

"  I  want  no  other,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  come  between  you 
and  Nan?  She  would  break  my  heart  by  hat 
ing  me." 

"  Then  let  us  leave  the  matter  to  Nan,"  he 
suggested. 

"  Why,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  pro 
tested  Zepherine.  "  You  must  be " 

"  I  certainly  am,"  he  answered.  At  that  mo 
ment  Nan  came  out  of  the  house,  and  when  she 
saw  Zepherine  and  her  father,  she  went  run 
ning  to  them.  "  Nan,  I  have  just  asked  this 
young  lady  to  leave  her  home  here  and  live 
with  us." 

Nan  gave  a  shrill  scream  of  delight.  "  Oh, 
won't  that  be  fun?" 

[148] 


A  Child  of  Christmas 

"  But  you  don't  understand,"  said  Zepherine. 

"Oh,  don't  I?  Why,  goosey,  you  must 
think  I'm  a  baby — and  I  will  be  one  when  you 
come;  you'll  be  my  itsy-bitsy  mamma." 

"  Oh,  for  shame!  "  cried  Zepherine,  getting 
very  red  in  the  face.  Whereupon,  Nan  seized 
her  dear  friend  and  squeezed  her  as  only  Nan 
could  squeeze.  "  You'll  break  every  bone  in 
my  body,"  protested  Zepherine. 

"  I'm  very  careful  about  that,"  Nan  ex 
plained;  "  I'm  leaving  a  few  for  popsy  to 
crack! "  With  that  she  released  Miss  Johns 
and  ran  away. 

"  Miss  Mischief!  I'll  get  you  for  that  ! " 
Zepherine  jumped  up  and  ran  after  the  bold 
thing.  Nan  permitted  herself  to  be  caught 
after  an  exciting  little  chase,  but  the  punish 
ment  meted  out  to  her  was  nothing  worse  than 
a  kiss.  The  two  stood  talking  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  they  walked  slowly  back  to  where 
they  had  left  Dorrington. 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  he 
said. 

[H9] 


'fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Say  it,  goosey,  and  be  done  with  it,"  in 
sisted  Nan. 

Zepherine  hid  her  face  on  the  child's  shoul 
der.  "  Oh,  Nan,  I  love  you ;  you  know  it  well. 
I  will  do  anything  to  please  you." 

"  Popsy,  there's  your  answer,"  said  Nan,  and 
then  she  ran  away  to  the  house,  a  very  thought 
ful  and  considerate  performance. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  all  the  time  that  I  hated 
you,"  said  Zepherine,  after  they  had  talked  a 
while,  "  but  when  I  saw  you  holding  my  dear 
father's  hand,  I  knew  the  feeling  was  something 
else."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  ex 
claimed,  "  What  a  Christmas  this  is  for  me!  9 

"  And  for  me,"  said  Dorrington. 


[150] 


Flingin  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 


Flingin  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 


Saturday  in  the  early  seventies,  a 
young  negro,  hardly  more  than  a  boy, 
who  had  gone  to  the  village  of  Harmony 
Grove  on  some  errand,  aimless  or  otherwise, 
suddenly  discovered  that  his  presence  was  both 
opportune  and  important.  He  had  come  from 
what  was  known  as  the  Briscoe  settlement, 
which  lay  nine  or  ten  miles  north  of  Harmony 
Grove  on  the  road  to  Malvern.  Arriving  in 
the  village,  he  unhitched  his  horse  from  the 
ramshackle  old  buggy,  tying  the  animal  to 
the  wheel  so  that  the  steed  might  nibble  com 
fortably  on  a  couple  of  bundles  of  fodder  that 
lay  loose  in  the  rear  of  the  seat.  This  done, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  small  wooden  building 
which  Harmony  Grove  dignified  by  the  name 
of  depot,  and  which  was  at  once  the  passenger- 
station  and  the  storehouse  for  such  freight  as 
[153] 


Ike  Making  of  a  Statesman 

came  to  and  went  forth  from  that  part  of  mid 
dle  Georgia. 

The  negro  had  arrived  during  the  forenoon, 
and  the  train  was  not  due  until  two  in  the  after 
noon.  Nevertheless  he  made  no  long  delay  in 
taking  up  his  position  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
platform  around  the  miniature  depot.  In  him, 
patience  was  next-door  neighbor  to  sleep,  and 
he  was  soon  engaged  in  nodding;  often  he  was 
on  the  point  of  falling  from  the  platform,  but 
always  caught  himself  in  the  nick  of  time.  In 
this  way  he  made  the  long  hours  short. 

The  negro  boy  was  effectually  aroused  final 
ly  by  the  rattle  of  the  old  hack  which  plied 
between  the  station  and  the  tavern,  and  he 
straightened  himself  up.  The  hack  passed  so 
close  to  him,  as  he  sat  with  his  feet  dangling 
from  the  platform,  that  the  wheel-spokes 
struck  against  his  toes. 

"  Humph !  you  must  be  tryin'  to  drag  me 
down,"  he  said  to  the  driver,  an  older  negro. 
"  What  you  tryin'  to  drag  me  down  fer? " 
The  tones  of  his  voice  were  soft  and  drawling. 

[1543 


Flingnt  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer  * 

"  Wanter  see  ef  you  'live,"  replied  the  driver, 
curtly.  His  voice  was  in  harsh  contrast  to 
that  of  the  other. 

"Well,  when  you  foun'  dat  out,"  said  the 
negro  who  had  been  nodding,  "  what  den?  " 
His  tone  was  one  of  idle  curiosity. 

"  Nothin'  "tall,"  answered  the  driver;  "  you 
ain't  done  nothin'  ter  me." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't?  I  thought  maybe  I  hurt  yo' 
feelin's  some  time  when  I  wuz  'sleep."  He 
laughed  a  flute-like  laugh,  as  he  continued: 
"  I  ain't  done  nothin' — well,  dat  won't  be  de 
tale  you'll  tell  nex'  time  you  try  ter  drag  me 
down." 

"I'm  a  blue-gum  nigger,"  remarked  the 
Jiack-driver,  with  a  frown. 

"  Oh,  you  is?  "  laughed  the  other.  "  Well, 
dey  useter  be  one  down  yan  whar  we-all  live  at. 
He  ain't  dar  now.  You  go  down  dar  an'  ax 
um  how  come  he  ain't  dar.  Dey'll  tell  you  ter- 
reckly." 

"  Boy,  whar  you  fum?  " 

"  Man,  I'm  from  de  Briscoe  settlement." 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  What  yo'  name?  " 

"  Flingin'  Jim." 

"Well,  suh!"  exclaimed  the  driver.  He 
turned  around  in  his  seat  and  stared  at  the 
negro  from  the  Briscoe  settlement  with  great 
interest.  The  fame  of  the  latter  had  evidently 
gone  before  him. 

"  How  come  you  kin  fling  rocks  like  folks 
say  you  kin?  "  the  driver  asked. 

"  Kaze,  when  I  wuz  little  a  fox-squirrel  sas- 
sied  me  an'  made  me  mad.  I  promised  'im  I'd 
git  'im,  an'  I  got  'im." 

"Well,  suh!"  repeated  the  driver.  Then, 
"  How  'bout  de  blue-gum  nigger?  " 

«  Who— him?  Well,  he  don't  b'long  'rourf 
dar  nohow.  An'  sho  'miff,  he  ain't  dar 
now!" 

The  whistle  of  the  locomotive  was  heard  a 
mile  away,  and  presently  its  funnel-shaped 
smoke-stack  appeared  around  a  curve,  and  the 
whole  train,  consisting  of  a  number  of  freight- 
cars,  a  baggage-car,  and  a  passenger-coach 
soon  drew  up  at  the  station. 
[156] 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

Flingin'  Jim  kept  his  seat  on  the  platform, 
and  the  driver  remained  in  his  place  in  the 
hack,  although  the  train  and  such  bustle  as  its 
arrival  created  were  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
building.  In  a  little  while  the  baggage-mas 
ter,  a  florid  young  fellow,  came  around  and 
threw  a  consumptive-looking  mail-sack  at  the 
hack-driver's  feet. 

"  Any  passengers?  "  inquired  the  negro. 

"  I  hunted  around  in  the  car  and  found  one 
a  piece  down  the  road.  He  may  have  walked 
and  beat  us  in,"  said  the  baggage-master. 

Nevertheless  the  passenger  had  been  patient 
enough  to  remain  on  the  slow-going  train,  and 
he  now  appeared. 

"  Is  there  a  livery-stable  here?  "  he  inquired. 
Receiving  an  affirmative  reply,  he  asked  if  it 
was  possible  to  get  a  "  conveyance  "  to  the 
Briscoe  settlement. 

Flingin'  Jim  sat  up  straight  at  this,  and 
looked  hard  at  the  stranger  from  under  the 
brim  of  his  wool  hat. 

"  Yassar,  you  kin  git  took  out,"  replied  the 

[157] 


'fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

driver,  "  but  all  de  bes'  stock  done  hired  out. 
De  town  young  men  went  huntin'  dis  mornin', 
some  in  buggies,  an'  some  on  hossback.  But 
dar's  a  boy  I  speck  kin  take  you  out.  I  dun- 
ner  what  kinder  rig  he  got.1' 

"  She  ain't  right  bran'-new,"  said  Flingin' 
Jim,  with  a  grin,  "  an'  she  may  wabble  some, 
but  she'll  Ian'  you  dar,  suh." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  go  with  you." 

The  gentleman — he  was  a  stranger  to  both 
negroes — was  tall  and  dark.  His  face  was  far 
from  handsome,  but  his  features  were  strong. 
His  eyebrows  were  very  heavy.  When  he 
lifted  them,  as  he  did  when  asking  a  question, 
his  face  was  sombre.  When  they  fell  back 
over  his  keen  black  eyes,  his  countenance 
seemed  to  be  both  fierce  and  arrogant.  And 
yet,  in  spite  of  this  aspect,  in  spite  of  the  heavy 
mustache  and  imperial,  there  were  lines  of  both 
tenderness  and  humor  about  his  mouth.  He 
appeared  to  be  about  thirty.  The  hack-driver 
had  turned  his  team  and  was  on  his  way  back 
to  the  hotel  when  he  saw  Flingin'  Jim  wres- 


Flingirt  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

tling  with  a  huge  valise.  He  came  to  a  halt, 
and  called  out: 

"  Fetch  dat  kyarpet-sack  here  an'  put  'er  in 
de  hack;  I'll  take  it  uptown." 

"  You  sho  doin'  me  right  dis  time,"  said 
Flingin'  Jim,  gratefully.  "  Dey  wouldn't  be 
no  trunks  an'  no  chists  ef  ev'body  had  dis 
kinder  doin's." 

The  stranger  paid  no  attention  to  all  this, 
but  stood  on  the  platform  gazing  curiously  at 
an  old  two-story  building  that  sat  in  a  clump  of 
pines  on  a  hill  to  the  right.  The  building  had 
once  been  the  village  academy.  He  was 
aroused  by  the  hack-driver,  who  inquired  if  he 
would  ride  to  the  village,  the  centre  of  which 
was  half  a  mile  away. 

No,  he  would  walk.  He  took  his  time 
about  it,  too,  sauntering  along  and  pausing  to 
take  in  some  scene  or  prospect  that  seemed  to 
strike  his  fancy. 

Flingin'  Jim  was  ready  and  waiting  when 
the  stranger  arrived  on  the  public  square. 
The  old  buggy  was  hardly  presentable.  The 
[159] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

paint  and  varnish  had  all  worn  off,  and  what 
had  been  the  dashboard  was  now  simply  a 
frame  of  rusty  iron;  but  the  vehicle  was  still 
strong,  having  been  made  in  the  days  when 
good,  honest  workmanship  was  in  fashion. 

No  fault  could  be  found  with  the  horse, 
which  was  a  creature  of  some  spirit,  trotting 
steadily  and  swiftly  when  the  road  was  level, 
and  taking  the  shorter  hills  with  a  bound  and 
a  rush. 

As  they  went  along,  the  gentleman  fell  into 
conversation  with  the  negro,  and  soon  learned 
that  some  member  of  his  family  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  coming  to  town  every  Saturday  for 
several  years;  sometimes  his  mammy  would 
come,  but  for  a  long  time  his  daddy  had  been 
coming.  Now,  however,  the  responsibility 
had  been  laid  on  his  shoulders. 

"  It's  mammy's  doin's,"  explained  Flingin* 
Jim.  "  She  got  it  strong  in  'er  min'  dat  Marse. 
Phil  Moseley  gwinc  ter  come  back  some  time." 

"  But  why  on  a  Saturday?  " 

"  Ef  I  ax  myse'f  dat  question  one  time,  I  ax 
[160] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

it  leb'n  hunder'd  an'  leb'nty-leb'n  times,"  re 
plied  Flingin'  Jim.  "  Mammy  may  know 
why,  but  she  ain't  tol'  me." 

"  What  is  your  mammy's  name?  " 

"  Elviry  Moseley,  suh.  We-all  useter  b'- 
long  ter  de  Moseleys,  suh.  My  daddy  name 
Bob  Moseley.  Marse  Phil  useter  call  'im  Unk 
Bobuel.  Daddy  'low  he  speck  mammy's  sen'- 
in'  in  atter  Marse  Phil." 

"  Phil  who?  "  inquired  the  gentleman. 

"  Marse  Phil  Moseley.  Daddy  say  he  wish 
Marse  Phil'd  make  'as'e  an'  come  on  ef  he 
comin',  kaze  it's  terrifyin'  ter  hafter  stop  a 
plough-hand  eve'y  Sat'day  in  de  year,  'specially 
when  de  grass  is  in  de  craps." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so!"  exclaimed  the 
gentleman.  "  What  does  your  mammy  want 
with  this  Phil  Moseley?  " 

"  Des  want  'im  ter  come  back.  Big  house 
dar  empty  an'  gwine  ter  rack,  an'  Mr.  Bill 
Dukes  say  de  county  gwine  ter  step  in  present 
ly  an'  sell  de  whole  place  fer  taxation  er  sump'n 
like  dat." 

[161] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  What  has  become  of  the  rest  of  the  Mose- 
leys?  Was  Philip  the  last  of  his  family?  " 

"  Oh,  dey  wuz  mo'  un  um,  suh;  but  some 
went  off  an'  some  done  dead — Miss  Sue,  she 
married,  an'  I  bet  you  she's  a-makin'  dat  man 
toe  de  mark  right  now,  dis  very  minit.  Miss 
Sue  wuz  cousin  ter  Marse  Phil's  ma's  cousin." 

The  gentleman  laughed  for  the  first  time, 
an  event  so  unexpected  that  Flingin'  Jim 
looked  at  him  sidewise,  and  asked  him  if  he 
knew  Miss  Sue. 

"  I've  heard  of  her,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  used 
to  know  Phil  Moseley,  and  he  told  me  about 
her." 

"  Is  Marse  Phil  dead?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Yes;  he's  dead,  but  he's  not  buried." 

Flingin'  Jim  thought  this  matter  over  for 
some  little  time.  "  Well,  suh!  "  he  exclaimed. 
"Dead  an'  ain't  buried!"  The  statement 
rhymed,  in  his  mind,  with  some  old-folk  tale 
he  had  heard  his  elders  tell.  "  No  wonder  dey 
say  de  house  ha'nted.  I  speck  it's  Marse  Phil 
comin'  back  kaze  he  wanter  be  buried." 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

"  You  are  certainly  correct  about  that,"  said 
the  traveller,  with  grave  emphasis. 

The  sun  was  still  shining  when  Flingin'  Jim 
and  his  passenger  passed  by  the  little  church 
which  seemed  to  interpose  its  presence  be 
tween  the  settlement  and  the  evil  influences 
that  might  be  presumed  to  emanate  from  the 
village  miles  away.  Established  as  it  was  upon 
a  hill,  the  church  was  properly  termed  Mount 
Horeb,  and  this  name  had  belonged  to  it  ever 
since  the  third  year  after  Matthew  Clopton 
had  settled  at  Shady  Dale.  If  the  building  is 
standing  to-day,  it  is  one-hundred  and  ten 
years  old. 

A  few  hundred  yards  farther  on,  they  passed 
by  a  field  in  which  an  old  negro  woman  was 
digging,  while  a  boy  was  kneeling  near  by 
gathering  up  the  result  of  her  labors. 

"  Dat's  granny,"  Flingin'  Jim  explained; 
"  granny  an*  my  Brer  Sam.  I  speck  dey  er 
gittin'  a  mess  er  taters  fer  Sunday.  Well, 
suh! "  he  exclaimed,  "  ef  granny  ain't  got  de 
long-handle  weedin'-hoe  you  kin  shoot  me!" 

"Well,  why  not?" 

[163] 


cfke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  Kaze  she  allers  say  dat  when  anybody  see 
'er  diggin'  wid  de  long-handle  weedin'-hoe 
sump'n  'bout  ter  happen.  She  been  had  dat 
hoe  und'  her  house  ever  sence  Marse  Phil  went 
'way." 

"  She  must  have  felt  that  a  stranger  was 
coming,"  remarked  Jim's  passenger. 

"  Granny  sho  is  a  plum  sight,"  said  Flingin* 
Jim,  with  pride.  "  Is  dey  any  special  place 
whar  you  wanter  be  took,  suh?  " 

"What  about  this  haunted  Moseley  house?" 
the  stranger  inquired.  "  If  there  is  any  bed  or 
furniture  left,  I  should  like  to  stay  there. 
Couldn't  your  mammy  manage  to  get  me  up 
something  to  eat?  " 

"  She  mighty  handy  wid  de  pots  an*  pans, 
suh,"  the  negro  replied. 

They  drove  to  the  old  house  which  loomed 
up  dark  and  grim  even  with  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  shining  upon  its  tall  roof.  Flingin* 
Jim  left  his  passenger  sitting  in  the  buggy  and 
ran  to  his  mammy's  house,  which  was  not  far 
away.  Elviry  heard  what  Jim  had  to  say. 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

"  Tain't  Marse  Phil,"  she  remarked,  with 
a  sigh.  "  Ef  it  had  'a'  been  Marse  Phil,  he 
wouldn't  V  waited  fer  you  ter  come  atter  me. 
An'  mo'  'an  dat,  he'd  'a'  axed  you  'bout — but 
n'er  min';  I'll  go  an'  look  at  'im." 

The  gentleman  made  known  his  desires  in 
a  very  few  words.  He  had  come  to  look  after 
the  Moseley  property,  and  settle  up  all  the 
affairs  of  the  estate.  If  there  was  a  bed  left  in 
the  house,  he  would  like  to  sleep  there,  and  if 
Elviry  could  cook  him  something  to  eat  while 
he  remained  in  the  neighborhood,  he  would 
pay  her  well. 

The  woman  hesitated  one  brief  moment, 
with  a  question  on  her  lips.  Then  she  went 
around  the  house  and  soon  had  the  front  door 
open.  The  stranger  had  taken  his  heavy  valise 
from  the  buggy  with  one  hand  and  carried  it 
to  the  veranda  as  easily  as  if  it  weighed  not 
more  than  a  pound  and  a  half — a  fact  that 
caused  Flingin'  Jim  to  utter  an  exclamation 
of  surprise. 

By  the  time  the  gentleman  entered  the  door, 
[165] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
more  than  one  candle  was  lit.     Placing  his  va 
lise  in  the  hall,  he  called  to  Jim,  "  How  much 
do  I  owe  you?  " 

"  Mammy'll  tell  you  dat,  suh,"  responded 
the  negro,  and  at  once  drove  the  buggy  away. 

However  grim  and  dark  the  exterior  feat 
ures  of  the  old  house  appeared  to  be,  the  inte 
rior  presented  a  most  homelike  appearance. 
On  every  side  there  were  evidences  of  neat 
housekeeping.  On  the  hearth  a  fire  was  kin 
dled.  A  clock  in  the  dining-room  chimed  the 
half-hour,  answered  by  the  clear  bell  of  the 
clock  on  the  sitting-room  mantel.  It  was 
half-past  six. 

"  You  must  have  been  expecting  someone/1 
the  stranger  suggested. 

"  Not  specially,  suh,"  replied  Elviry.  "  We 
des  tryin'  ter  please  Marse  Phil.  He  liable  to 
drap  in  any  minit,  an'  I  know  mighty  well  he'd 
like  ter  have  eve'thing  look  like  it  did  de  day 
he  went  off.  A  white  lady  comes  an'  fixes  up 
fer  me  when  I  have  ter  clean  up.  You  see 
dat  book  on  de  table  dar?  Well,  Marse  Phil 
[166] 


"Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 
wuz  lookin'  at  it  de  mornin'  he  lef,  an*  when 
he  turn  'roun*  to  say  good-by  to  we-all,  he 
laid  it  right  whar  you  see  it  layin'  now." 

"  Is  that  so?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"  'Twon't  be  no  trouble  fer  ter  git  yo'  sup 
per,"  continued  Elviry.  "  We  allers  has  eve'y- 
thing  ready  ag'in'  de  hour  when  Marse  Phil  is 
ter  come." 

"  But  suppose  he  doesn't  come?  " 

"  He  des  bleege  ter  come;  dey  ain't  no  two 
ways  'bout  dat."  Having  thus  settled  the 
matter,  she  piloted  the  gentleman  to  the  back 
porch,  where  there  was  fresh  water  to  drink, 
and  to  remove  the  dust  of  travel. 

Supper  was  soon  ready,  and  it  was  a  good 
one,  to  which  the  new-comer  did  ample  justice. 
Elviry  had  placed  two  candles  on  the  table, 
and  had  so  arranged  them  that  they  would  il 
luminate  the  gentleman's  face.  Beyond  prais 
ing  Elviry 's  cooking,  he  said  nothing;  but 
when  he  had  dulled  the  edge  of  his  appetite, 
he  suddenly  looked  up.  Seeing  Elviry  re 
garding  him  intently,  he  smiled. 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"Bless  God!"  she  exclaimed,  clapping  her 
hands  together. 

"  What  is  the  trouble?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  I  come  mighty  nigh  fergittin'  de 
jam! "  Elviry  replied,  in  a  tone  so  queer  that 
the  gentleman  looked  at  her  again;  this  time 
with  amazement. 

The  jam  was  promptly  forthcoming.  When 
he  had  finished,  the  gentleman  declared  that 
it  was  the  best  supper  he  had  eaten  in  many 
years.  He  paused  on  his  way  to  the  sitting- 
room,  saying: 

"  How  much  do  I  owe  you  for  the  buggy 
ride?  " 

"  Who?  Me?  How  much  you  owe  fer 
bein'  brung  out  here?  A  ten-dollar  bill  in 
greenbacks — dat's  how  much !  " 

"  Well,  I'll  be !  "  exclaimed  the  gentle 
man. 

Elviry  went  out  into  the  hallway.  "  Come 
in  de  setting-room,"  she  said.  "  Set  down  in 
dat  cheer  dar."  The  stranger  complying,  El 
viry  seated  herself  on  the  floor  near  the  corner 
of  the  hearth. 

[168] 


Flingin*  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

She  picked  up  a  splinter  that  had  fallen  from 
the  kindling,  and  looked  at  it,  twisting  it 
around  and  about  her  fingers.  "  Marse  Phil," 
she  said,  still  studying  the  sliver  of  pine,  "  I 
been  knowin'  de  Moseleys  ever  sence  I  been 
born,  an'  been  hear  talk  er  dem  what  I  ain't 
knowed,  an'  dis  de  fust  time,  in  so  fur  ez  I 
knows,  dat  arrer  one  un  um  wuz  ever  cotch 
sneakin'  back  home." 

The  man's  face  reddened  and  his  jaw  fell, 
but  Elviry  saw  nothing  of  that;  she  was  study 
ing  the  pine  splinter. 

"Plague  on  you!"  Moseley  exclaimed; 
"  how  did  you  know  me?  "  There  was  irrita 
tion  in  his  tone,  but  no  anger. 

"  I  knowed  you  by  the  skyar  on  you'  lip, 
whar  you  cut  it  wid  a  chany  cup  when  you  wuz 
1'arnin'  ter  walk." 

"  Why,  there's  no  scar  there,"  he  replied, 
taking  a  candle  and  examining  his  lip  in  a 
mirror. 

"  You  draw  you  mouf  open  like  you  gwine 
ter  laugh,  an'  you'll  see  it  show  red."  At  this 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

he  laughed  in  earnest,  and  sure  enough  the 
scar  showed,  a  tiny  stroke  of  red.  He  re 
placed  the  candle  on  the  table  and  seated  him 
self  again.  During  all  this  time  Elviry  never 
raised  her  face  to  look  at  Moseley;  and  he, 
looking  at  her  intently,  suddenly  remembered 
this  was  always  her  way.  She  was  fifteen  when 
she  became  his  nurse,  and  he  was  a  month  old. 
Until  he  was  nine,  she  nursed  him  or  followed 
him  about,  and  he  remembered  with  something 
like  a  pang  that  during  all  these  years  the  only 
rebuke  she  ever  administered  was  to  display 
shame  or  grief  when  he  transgressed  the  rules 
of  right  conduct. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  ashamed  again,"  he  sug 
gested,  somewhat  curtly. 

"  Yassar,  I  is;  mo'  'shame*  now  dan  all  de 
yuther  times  put  terge'er."  She  paused,  but 
he  made  no  reply,  and  she  went  on:  "  Marse 
Phil,  how  come  you  ter  do  it;  what  make  you 
do  it?  Is  dey  anybody  atter  you?  Wuz  you 
feared  we-all  wuz  cheatin'  you?  " 

The  truth  is,  he  hardly  knew  the  motives 
[170] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

that  had  prompted  him  to  refrain  from  making 
himself  known,  especially  to  Elviry.  He  had 
reasons — not  very  good  ones,  perhaps;  still 
they  were  reasons.  As  he  used  to  do  when  a 
child,  he  proceeded  to  put  Elviry  on  the  defen 
sive. 

"  Why  didn't  you  go  around  telling  every 
body  that  you  were  sending  after  me  every 
Saturday?  " 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  been  in  the 
room,  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
through  her  tears.  "  Do  which,  Marse  Phil?  " 

"  Why  didn't  you  send  word  around  the 
neighborhood  that  you  were  sending  to  town 
for  me  every  Saturday?  You  didn't  even  tell 
Uncle  Bobuel,  did  you?  " 

For  answer,  Elviry  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed  joyously.  "  Dat  des  de  way  you  use 
ter  do  when  you  wuz  little.  Now  you  nee'nter 
b'lieve  I  dunner  why  I  ain't  tell  Bob,  kaze  I 
does;  but  I  can't  put  it  right  plain  in  words." 
Even  while  she  laughed,  she  was  wiping  away 
the  tears. 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  That's  about  the  way  I  feel/*  said  Philip 
Moseley.  "  There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't 
have  had  handbills  scattered  around  announc 
ing  that  on  a  certain  day  Phil  Moseley  would 
return  to  his  old  home,  but  I  didn't." 

"  But  you  ain't  tell  me  'bout  it  atter  you 
done  come.  You  never  said  howdy,  an'  you 
never  shuck  han's." 

"Well,  I'll  not  bother  you  long,  and  I'll 
shake  han's  when  I  start  back  home." 

"  Home!  Home! "  exclaimed  Elviry,  with 
vehemence.  "  Ain't  dis  yo'  home?  Ain't  dis 
whar  ole  miss  an'  ole  marster  live  an'  die  at?  " 
In  her  earnestness  Elviry  rose  to  her  feet  and 
stood  facing  Philip  Moseley. 

"  Well,  I've  lived  in  Mississippi  so  long  that 
it  feels  more  like  home  than  this  place."  He 
had  followed  the  fortunes  of  Bedford  Forrest 
during  the  war,  and  had  gone  with  that  great 
fighter  to  Mississippi  when  Providence  called 
a  truce. 

"  Seven  year  ain't  so  long,"  she  replied. 

He  made  no  reply,  and  she  suddenly  asked, 
"  Is  you  married,  Marse  Phil?  " 
[172] 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

"  No,  by  George !  and  I  never  expect  to 
be." 

Elviry  fumbled  at  the  red  table-cloth  with 
her  fingers.  "  Well,  dey  useter  be  a  young 
lady  some'rs  in  dis  county  dat  you  set  some 
sto'  by." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  stroking  his  mustache. 
"  I've  forgotten  her  name.  The  only  thing  I 
remember  about  her  is  that  she  gave  me  the 
back  of  her  hand  and  the  toe  of  her  shoe,  as 
the  saying  is." 

"  Well !  "  cried  Elviry.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  on  paper  the  tone  and  emphasis  em 
ployed  by  the  negro  woman  to  charge  this 
simple  exclamation  with  doubt,  distrust,  and 
contempt. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  and  something  he  saw 
in  her  face,  some  expression  of  pity  not  un 
mixed  with  disgust,  caused  his  eyes  to  fall  and 
the  blood  to  rush  to  his  face.  It  was  almost  as 
if  he  were  a  boy  again. 

"  Well — what?  "  he  said,  with  some  irrita 
tion. 


The  Mating  of  a  Statesman 

"  Nothin'  'tall,  suh,"  Elviry  replied. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  humble.  She  turned 
slowly  away  and  went  about  cleaning  off  the 
table  in  the  dining-room. 

Something  or  other  in  the  situation  gave 
Philip  Moseley  considerable  discomfort.  As 
he  sat  there  gazing  in  the  fire,  the  face  of  a  girl 
he  used  to  know  slowly  shaped  itself  in  his 
memory — the  face  of  Ann  Briscoe.  It  was  a 
very  striking  face,  sensitive,  proud,  reserved, 
and  yet  marked  by  a  tenderness  that  flashed 
from  lustrous  brown  eyes — a  face  that  was 
noble  rather  than  beautiful.  Specifications 
such  as  these  had  not  occurred  to  Moseley's 
mind  during  the  days  when  he  was  to  be  found 
at  Ann  Briscoe 's  elbow,  or  riding  by  her  side 
at  all  proper  hours.  But  now,  he  could  check 
off  each  feature  of  that  haunting  face,  and 
glibly  give  the  name  of  each  quality  or  group 
of  qualities  that  it  stood  for.  He  knew  now 
why  neither  he  nor  anyone  else  had  ever  called 
her  "  Annie,"  though  the  fact  used  to  puzzle 
hin"|T 

[174] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  ¥ool-Kilkr 

He  had  been  grandly  and  dramatically  in 
love  with  Ann  Briscoe  in  his  early  youth,  and 
for  some  years  afterward.  The  two  had,  in 
fact,  exchanged  pledges  when  he  started  off 
for  the  war.  He  wrote  her  as  soon  as  an  op 
portunity  offered,  and  that  was  the  last  of  his 
youthful  dream.  He  wrote  again,  to  be  sure, 
and  the  third  time,  but  no  reply  ever  came,  and 
he  gave  himself  over  to  some  very  miserable 
hours  during  the  long  days  and  nights  that  fol 
lowed.  In  fact,  he  knew  now  why  he  had 
come  sneaking  back,  as  Elviry  had  said,  and  he 
knew  only  too  well  why  he  had  refrained  from 
making  inquiries  about  this  girl  he  used  to 
know.  Girl?  If  still  unmarried,  she  must 
now  be  an  old  maid  of  twenty-six. 

Elviry  had  had  her  own  hopes.  But  these 
had  been  shattered  and  her  plans  crumbled  be 
fore  her  eyes.  She  said  to  herself  that  the 
Marse  Phil  she  had  been  expecting  for  so  long 
was  not  the  Marse  Phil  she  had  formerly 
known,  and  she  felt  that  his  return  was  but  a 
matter  of  money. 

[175] 


*fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 
Philip  Moseley  could  hear  her  muttering  to 
herself  as  she  cleared  the  table  or  as  she 
crossed  the  hall.  Her  words  failed  to  reach 
him,  but  what  she  was  saying  was  that  he 
needn't  be  afraid  that  anybody  had  cheated 
him  out  of  a  thrip.  The  truth  is,  the  affairs 
of  the  plantation  had  been  well  managed.  The 
court  of  ordinary  had  appointed  'Squire  Barks- 
dale  administrator  until  such  time  as  Philip 
Moseley  should  return  or  until  proof  of  his 
death  was  forthcoming. 

Judge  Barksdale  was  glad  to  lease  the  plan 
tation  to  Ann  Briscoe,  who,  in  managing  her 
own  property  after  the  war,  had  developed  a 
considerable  capacity  for  business.  She  had, 
too,  the  advice  of  her  father,  who,  though  a 
helpless  invalid,  had  a  clear  head  and  a  vigor 
ous  mind. 

There  was  just  enough  enthusiasm  left  in 
Elviry  to  urge  her  to  bring  about  a  quick  set 
tlement  of  the  whole  business.  The  next 
morning,  after  she  had  prepared  breakfast  for 
Philip  Moseley,  she  returned  to  her  own  house. 
[176] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

The  day  was  Sunday,  but  she  stirred  up  things 
at  a  lively  rate.  She  had  an  errand  for  her 
husband,  who  was  sunning  himself  on  the 
door-sill. 

"  Bob,  you  git  up  fum  dar,  an5  take  yo'  foot 
in  yo*  han'  an'  go  tell  Miss  Ann  fer  ter  sen'  dem 
'count-books  what  she  been  keepin'.  Take 
dat  bag  dar  an'  fetch  um  in  it.  Ef  she  ain't 
dar,  you  come  back  an'  tell  me;  I  know  right 
whar  dey  is.  Now,  man,  move  like  you  got 
some  life  in  you! "  She  followed  him  to  the 
opening  of  the  rugged  fence  that  answered  the 
purpose  of  a  gate.  "  Min',  now,  ef  she  ain't 
dar,  you  come  right  back." 

Uncle  Bobuel  knew  from  Elviry's  tone  that 
something  more  than  ordinarily  serious  was 
on  foot,  and  he  made  no  delay.  He  covered 
the  half-mile  to  and  fro  in  a  very  short  time, 
bringing  back  with  him  a  number  of  account- 
books,  mainly  copy-books,  such  as  children 
use  at  school;  but  among  these  were  two  or 
three  "  day-books "  which  had  been  made 
to  serve  the  purpose  of  ledgers.  They 
[177] 


Making  of  a  Statesman     . 
were  all  neatly  arranged  and  carefully  tied 
together. 

Now,  if  Ann  Briscoe  had  been  at  home,  this 
bundle  of  account-books  would  never  have 
been  given  to  Uncle  Bobuel.  The  contents 
of  all  of  them  had  been  summed  up  and  set 
forth  in  one  of  the  larger  books.  But  Miss 
Ann  had  gone  from  home  immediately  after 
an  early  breakfast;  she  had  heard  that  one  of 
her  friends  was  ill,  so  she  determined  to  call 
on  her  way  to  church.  Her  father  was  at 
home,  however,  and  when  Uncle  Bobuel  made 
his  desires  known,  Mr.  Briscoe  wheeled  his 
chair  into  the  library,  pointed  out  the  books, 
and  bade  the  negro  get  them  down  from  the 
shelf. 

"  Take  'em  along,  take  'em  along,"  he  said, 
with  some  petulance.  "  I  don't  see  why  Barks- 
dale  can't  come  here  and  look  at  'em." 

"  Tain't  Marse  Barksdale,  suh,"  remarked 
Uncle  Bobuel.  "  I  'lowed  fum  de  way  Elviry 
done,  dat  it  mought  be  Marse  Phil  Moseley 
hisse'f." 

[178] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

"  Well,  he's  got  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 
with  these  accounts,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Briscoe, 
with  some  heat.  "  But  take  'em  along,  take 
'em  along.  Your  Miss  Ann  has  nothing  to 
hide." 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Ann  did  have 
something  very  important  to  hide;  something 
of  which  her  father  knew  nothing.  Neverthe 
less,  Uncle  Bobuel  took  the  bundle  and  went 
trudging  home  with  it.  Once  there,  he  hand 
ed  it  over  to  Elviry,  who  took  it  from  the  bag 
and  placed  it  on  her  head.  Nicely  balancing 
it,  she  took  a  pitcher  in  one  hand  and  a  basket 
in  the  other,  and  made  her  way  to  the  big 
house.  Strange  to  say,  the  house  seemed  to 
be  lonelier  than  ever.  The  door  was  open,  but 
the  blinds  in  front  were  tightly  closed.  She 
carried  the  package  of  books  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 

"  Here  de  sums  an'  riggers.  Ef  dey  er 
wrong  anywhar,  dey  kin  be  sot  right.  Twon't 
take  Miss  Ann  two  minits  an'  a  half  ter  fix 
um."  Elviry  had  almost  as  much  respect  for 


*fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

Miss  Ann's  "  sums  and  figgers  "  as  she  had  for 
Miss  Ann  herself. 

"  Why,  I  asked  for  no  accounts/'  said  Mose- 
ley.  "  I  wouldn't  know  head  from  tail  if  I 
were  to  go  through  them  a  dozen  times.  Who 
has  kept  these  accounts?  Miss  Ann  Briscoe; 
very  well.  If  Miss  Ann  Briscoe  says  they  are 
all  right,  that  settles  it  with  me." 

"  Well,  dar  dey  is,"  Elviry  insisted,  "  an'  dar 
I'll  leave  um.  You  may  change  yo'  min'  'bout 
lookin'  at  um,  an'  den  you'll  fin'  um  han 
dy.  Mo'  dan  dat,  I  ain't  got  no  place  ter 
put  um  at,  less'n  I  sen*  um  back  ter  Bris- 


coe's." 


She  waited  for  some  response  to  this,  but 
Moseley  was  watching  a  belated  white  butter 
fly  fluttering  about  the  flower-garden,  where 
a  few  fall  blossoms  were  in  bloom.  Observing 
his  abstraction,  and  resenting  it  as  indifference, 
Elviry  turned  and  hurried  from  the  room  to 
see  about  dinner.  But  Moseley  called  her 
back. 

"  Elviry,  what  in  the  name  of  heaven  has 
[180] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

Ann  Briscoe  to  do  with  this  place? "  His 
manner  was  very  solemn. 

"  You  better  ax  what  she  ain't  got  ter  do 
with  it,"  replied  Elviry.  "  Why,  Marse  Phil, 
ef  it  hadn't  been  fer  me  an'  Miss  Ann  de  whole 
place  would  'a'  gone  ter  rack  an'  ruin.  All  yo' 
blood  kin  done  dead,  an'  de  lawyers  des  a-wait- 
in'  a  chance  fer  ter  hatch  up  a  showin'  dat  you 
done  dead  too.  Dat  what  I  hear  Marse  Barks- 
dale  say,  an'  Miss  Ann  'gree  wid  'im." 

As  Moseley  said  no  more,  Elviry  went  about 
her  business,  still  in  a  pucker.  Moseley  untied 
the  package  of  account-books  and  began  to 
examine  them  with  indifferent  interest.  He 
remembered  Ann  Briscoe's  handwriting  well. 
There  was  a  certain  boldness  and  deftness  in 
its  style,  bordering  on  masculinity,  and  these 
qualities  were  thoroughly  characteristic.  He 
remembered  how  completely  she  differed  from 
all  the  women  he  had  ever  met  in  her  open  sin 
cerity,  and  her  complete  indifference  to  those 
trivial  and  unimportant  conventions  that  are 
made  so  much  of  by  the  great  majority  of  the 
[181] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

weaker  sex.  She  was  thoroughly  a  woman, 
but  possessed  both  common-sense  and  humor. 
Philip  Moseley  remembered  all  these  char 
acteristics  with  satisfaction  rather  than  indif 
ference,  as  he  thumbed  one  book  after  another. 
Presently,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  bundle,  he 
came  upon  a  paper-bound  volume  a  trifle 
smaller  than  the  rest.  It  was  the  young 
woman's  diary,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  no  right 
to  open  its  pages.  And  yet — he  had  opened 
them.  At  the  moment  the  thought  occurred 
to  him,  his  thought  lay  against  a  date  line — 
"July  3ist,  1861."  The  entry  that  followed 
was  in  these  words:  "  P.  M.  has  now  been 
gone  three  months  to  a  day.  He  was  to  write 
and  he  has  not  written.  Mr.  Dukes,  who  was 
in  P.  M.'s  company,  has  returned  on  a  fur 
lough.  He  says  that  all  are  well.  To  me  this 
is  very  strange  news — that  all  should  be  well. 
Mr.  Dukes  said  that  the  soldier  boys  in  his 
company  *  loaded  him  down '  with  letters  and 
messages.  A  letter  from  P.  M.  to  me  would 
have  been  the  last  feather  to  break  the  camel's 
[182] 


Flingm'  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

back.  Mr.  Dukes  has  been  kind  enough  to 
remind  me  that  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  be 
fore  he  went  away,  and  I  have  been  cold 
enough  to  ask  him  if  he  remembers  what  my 
answer  was."  Another  entry  was  made  under 
date  of  January  4,  1862:  "  Still  no  word  from 
P.  M.  It  is  really  curious  that  one's  friends 
should  be  dead  and  still  lack  burial." 

Moseley  closed  the  book  with  a  laugh,  re 
membering  the  remark  he  had  made  to  Fling- 
in'  Jim.  Yet  in  his  inmost  soul  his  emotions 
were  tragical  enough  to  suit  the  occasion.  He 
tied  the  books  together  again,  and  went  out 
into  the  garden,  where  he  paced  up  and  down 
the  familiar  walks,  thinking.  His  memory 
had  become  absurdly  strong  and  vivid.  He 
remembered  that  as  he  was  writing  his  first 
letter  to  Ann  Briscoe,  some  of  the  boys  started 
a  rabbit — their  camp  was  newly  pitched  in  the 
neighborhood  of  hedges  and  thickets  of  briars. 
The  yells  of  the  troops  had  so  frightened  the 
rabbit  that  it  ran  blindly  into  his  tent  and  took 
refuge  between  his  feet  as  he  sat  writing. 
[183] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

He  could  remember,  also,  some  of  the  ten 
derer  passages  of  the  letter.  He  had  written 
in  a  great  glow  of  feeling,  for  it  was  a  period  of 
his  life  when  hope,  and  courage,  and  the  pas 
sionate  devotion  of  youth  ran  high.  He  re 
membered  that  his  first  letter  had  been  in 
trusted  to  a  man  named  Grierson — a  friend 
and  kinsman  of  this  William  Dukes  whose 
name  Moseley  had  found  celebrated  in  Ann 
Briscoe's  diary.  Grierson  had  been  trans 
ferred,  at  his  own  request,  to  the  Department 
of  the  Gulf,  and  on  his  way  there,  intended  to 
stop  at  Harmony  Grove  to  transact  some  busi 
ness  for  Mr.  Dukes. 

Dukes — well,  something  about  the  name 
must  have  been  funny,  for  Moseley  smiled  as 
he  spoke  it  aloud.  Then  he  lit  a  cigar,  the 
fumes  of  which,  floating  houseward  to  Elviry, 
caused  that  appreciative  individual  to  pause  in 
her  labors  long  enough  to  remark,  "  Hit  sho 
do  smell  like  ol'  times."  Then  there  was  the 
"  P.  M."  of  the  diary.  Did  the  letters  stand 
for  post  meridian  or  post  mortem?  Again 
[184] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

Moseley  smiled,  and  Flingin'  Jim,  passing  by 
at  the  time,  took  it  to  himself  and  bowed,  lift 
ing  his  hat. 

"  Good-morning,  James,'*  said  Moseley. 

"  I'm  mighty  well,  suh.  I  seed  granny  tot- 
in'  de  big  basket  des  now." 

"  Now,  is  that  so? "  inquired  Moseley, 
gravely.  "  And  on  Sunday,  too?  " 

"  Yes,  suh,  granny  been  sayin'  fer  de  long 
est,  dat  when  she  dig  wid  de  long-handle  hoe, 
an'  tote  a  big  basket  down  ter  de  spring  an' 
back,  hit's  gwineter  be  de  sign  er  sump'n. 
Specially  when  she  tote  de  hoe  an'  de  basket. 
I  ax  her  what  she  got  in  dar,  an'  she  say, 
*  Larroze  ter  ketch  meddlers.' ' 

"  Well,  well ! "  exclaimed  Moseley,  with  a 
solemn  affectation  of  wonder. 

"  Dat's  granny's  sesso,  suh,  it  sho  is;  larroze 
ter  ketch  meddlers.  She  say  dat  when  she  do 
like  dat,  hit's  gwineter  be  a  sign  ter  we-all  in 
de  fambly,  dat  Marse  Phil  done  come  back." 

"You  don't  tell  me!  And  has  he  re 
turned?  " 

[185] 


'fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  I  speck  he  is,  suh,"  replied  Flingin'  Jim, 
directing  a  shrewd  but  fleeting  glance  at  Mose- 
ley.  "  Ef  he  ain't  here  now,  hell  come  ter- 
day." 

"  By  the  bye,  do  you  know  a  man  named 
Grierson? "  Moseley  inquired.  He  had  no 
thought  but  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Huh!  "  grunted  Flingin'  Jim,  "  everybody 
know  dat  man.  He  come  here  right  atter  de 
war,  an*  settle  down  close  ter  Mr.  Bill  Dukes. 
Dey  say  Bill  Dukes  gi'  'im  de  Ian'.  But  he 
ain't  been  here  long  'fo'  he  had  a  fallin'  out  wid 
Bill  Dukes  an'  his  Brer  Tom,  an'  dey  cotch  'im 
out  one  night  an'  come  mighty  nigh  beatin' 
'im  ter  death.  He  been  cripple  ever  sence. 
Dem  Dukes  is  monstrous  servigrous  folks — 
dey  sho  is." 

"  H-m-m!     So  I've  been  told." 

"  Dey  tol*  you  right  dat  time.  After  dis 
Grierson  man  got  his  beatin',  he  took  an'  move 
off.  You  know  whar  de  Trimbles  useter  live? 
Well,  right  dar  you'll  fin'  Grierson — des  beyan* 
de  Tunison  place.  He  married  Miss  Jane 
[186] 


Flmgirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

Fraley.  Miss  Jane  wuz  a  right  promisin* 
white  'oman  when  she  married  Grierson,  but 
now — "  Flingin'  Jim  paused  and  shook  his 
head.  "  Marse  Barksdale  say  dat  eve'y  year 
count  fer  ten  wid  Miss  Jane  sence  she  married 
dat  man.  Folks  say  dat  man  put  a  spell  on 
her."  Evidently  Flingin'  Jim  was  fond  of 
gossip. 

"  Is  there  a  horse  on  the  place  that's  fit  to 
ride?  "  Moseley  asked. 

Flingin'  Jim  laughed.  "  We  got  one  dat's 
fitten,  but  I  don't  speck  you  kin  ride  'im. 
Miss  Ann  rides  'im  sometimes,  but  it's  all  she 
kin  do." 

"  Well,  saddle  him  directly  after  dinner.  I 
want  to  pay  a  party  call." 

"  Daddy'll  saddle  'im,  suh— not  me." 

Whereupon  Moseley  went  to  the  barn  to 
inspect  the  horse,  and,  if  possible,  make  friends 
with  him.  The  creature  was  very  peculiarly 
marked.  He  was  a  chestnut  sorrel,  but  his 
head,  a  part  of  his  neck,  and  the  near  hind-leg 
were  as  white  as  milk,  the  skin  underneath  giv- 
[187] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
ing  it  the  pinkish  reflection  which  frequently 
marks  the  albino  type.  Sherman's  army,  in 
passing  through  that  section,  took  all  the  stock 
on  the  Briscoe  plantation,  but  left  in  its  place 
a  thoroughbred  mare  which  was  in  no  condi 
tion  to  travel  farther.  The  peculiarly  marked 
horse  was  her  offspring. 

Moseley  soon  discovered  that  the  bad  char 
acter  which  Flingin'  Jim  had  given  to  the  horse 
was  due  partly  to  a  lack  of  understanding,  and 
partly  to  the  desire  of  Uncle  Bobuel,  who  had 
the  care  of  him,  to  win  a  reputation  for  himself 
as  the  manager  of  an  unmanageable  horse. 
The  astonishment  of  Flingin'  Jim  was  great 
when  the  strange  gentleman,  who  had  never 
seen  the  dangerous  animal  before,  walked  con 
fidently  into  the  stall,  untied  the  halter,  and 
led  the  well-groomed  horse  out  into  the  sun 
light.  Beyond  a  few  antics  which  never  car 
ried  him  to  the  length  of  his  halter-strap,  the 
creature  did  nothing  but  stand  with  his  head 
high,  and  draw  into  his  pink  nostrils  huge  vol 
umes  of  the  sweet  atmosphere  which  is  the 
[188] 


Flingitt  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 
boon  that  Indian  summer  brings  to  those  who 
know  her  and  watch  for  her  coming. 

"  Miss  Ann  named  'im  Prince,  suh,  an*  dat 
what  we-all  calls  'im,"  said  Flingin'  Jim,  by 
way  of  comment. 

Prince  was  too  fat  for  hard  service,  but 
otherwise  he  had  been  carefully  groomed. 
His  coat  shone  like  satin  in  the  sun,  and  his 
peculiar  markings  gave  him  an  uncanny  ap 
pearance.  Nevertheless,  Prince  was  very 
beautiful. 

"  Daddy  say  he  savin'  Prince  fer  Marse 
Phil,"  Flingin'  Jim  went  on.  "  He  say  Marse 
Phil  kin  ride  any  hoss  what'll  stay  on  de 
groun'.  Dey  all  say  dat.  But  Daddy,  he 
'low  dat  when  Marse  Phil  come,  he'll  ride  dat 
hoss  wid  a  halter." 

Everything,  it  seemed,  was  waiting  for 
Philip  Moseley,  and  everything  was  for  his 
special  glorification. 

After  dinner,  Moseley  called  to  Flingin'  Jim 
to  show  him  where  the  bridles  and  saddles 
were,  and  the  horse  was  soon  ready  for  the 
[189] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

journey  to  Mr.  Grierson's.  At  one  part  of  the 
proceedings,  the  negro  boy  shook  his  head. 
The  horse  had  always  been  ridden  with  a  curb, 
but  Moseley  substituted  a  snaffle.  By  the  time 
he  had  settled  himself  in  the  saddle,  he  seemed 
to  be  a  part  of  the  horse;  and  somehow  the 
appearance  of  both  was  greatly  improved. 
The  first  burst  of  eagerness  over,  the  horse 
settled  down  into  a  long,  swinging  stride  that 
was  the  perfection  of  ease  and  grace;  and  for 
the  first  time  in  many  a  long  day  Moseley 
found  himself  enjoying  some  of  the  sensations 
peculiar  to  the  years  of  his  youth. 

Mr.  Grierson  was  at  home.  Alas!  he  was 
always  at  home  these  days,  so  Mrs.  Grierson 
said,  as  she  met  Philip  Moseley  at  the  door. 
Prepared  by  Flingin'  Jim's  description,  the 
visitor  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  lady 
whom  he  had  known  before  her  marriage  as 
Miss  Jane  Fraley;  but  there  was  no  point  of  re 
semblance  between  the  buxom  Jenny  and  this 
shrunken  and  weazened  woman,  old  before  her 
time. 

[190] 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

Shrunken  as  she  was,  Moseley  soon  discov 
ered  that  what  she  had  lost  in  flesh  she  had 
gained  in  spirit  and  temper,  and  he  quickly 
found  that  the  gossip  which  placed  her  in  the 
attitude  of  an  abused  wife,  had  not  a  particle 
of  basis  in  fact. 

"  Wishin'  may  be  believin',"  said  Mrs.  Grier- 
son,  "  but  it's  strong  in  my  mind  that  you're 
no  other  than  Phil  Moseley." 

"  You  are  right,  madam,"  was  the  reply, 
"  and  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again." 

"  Well,  you've  come  in  the  nick  of  time,  and 
I  thank  the  Lord  for  that  much,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Grierson. 

"  Janey !  Janey !  "  cried  a  wheezy  voice  from 
within;  "  don't  talk  so  loud.  Bill  Dukes'll  git 
wind  of  your  wild  words  an'  he'll  be  down 
upon  us." 

"  Listen  at  him — just  listen!  I  could  die 
when  I  hear  him  say  that!  Oh,  if  I  was  a 
man!"  Mrs.  Grierson's  voice  was  so  stifled 
by  passion  that  she  spoke  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
And  then,  in  impotent  rage,  she  beat  her 
clenched  hand  against  the  door-facing. 
[190 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

She  recovered  herself  almost  immediately, 
saying,  "  Don't  take  me  for  a  fool  till  you  see 
me  in  the  lunatic  asylum." 

He  followed  her  into  an  inner  room,  where, 
lying  upon  a  rude  stretcher,  he  saw  Mr.  Grier- 
son,  the  shadow  of  a  wreck,  and  yet  clinging 
to  life  most  strenuously.  The  stretcher  on 
which  he  lay  had  wheels  at  one  end  and  handles 
at  the  other,  so  that  it  could  be  rolled  from 
room  to  room. 

"  Look  at  that,"  said  Mrs.  Grierson,  grimly, 
pointing  at  the  wreck;  "  look  at  it  and  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  it." 

It  was  out  of  the  question  that  Moseley 
should  enter  into  the  woman's  mood. 

"  Mr.  Grierson  probably  doesn't  remember 
me,"  he  remarked. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  do,"  cried  the  cripple, 
petulantly,  "  when  I've  laid  awake  all  night 
many  a  night  waitin'  for  you." 

"  I'm  truly  sorry  to  see  you  in  such  a  plight," 
remarked  Moseley. 

"  Plight— plight?  What's  plight  got  to  do 
[192] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Pool-Killer 
wi'  it?  I  tell  you  it's  the  mind  that  works 
trouble;  the  body  hain't  got  a  thing  to  do  wi' 
it.  It's  the  mind — the  mind,  constant  a-wan- 
derin'  and  a-tossin'.  Roll  me  in  t'other  room, 
Janey,  where  there's  a  better  light." 

This  was  promptly  done,  and  Moseley  was 
pressed  to  have  a  seat  in  the  rocking-chair. 

"  I  have  no  long  time  to  stay,"  the  visitor 
remarked.  "  Mr.  Grierson,  several  years  ago 
I  intrusted  you  with  a  letter.  You  were  going 
to  Harmony  Grove,  and  it  was  to  be  posted 
there.  Have  you  any  idea  what  became  of 
that  letter?  " 

Mr.  Grierson  rolled  his  eyes  toward  his  wife, 
who  was  sitting  beside  the  stretcher,  and  the 
response  came  from  her. 

"  He  knows;  he  knows  mighty  well.  He 
took  the  letter,  brought  it  to  the  Grove,  and 
handed  it  over  to  Tom  Dukes,  just  as  Bill 
Dukes  told  him  to  do." 

"  I'll  tell  you  why  I  done  it,"  said  Mr.  Grier 
son.  "  I  done  it  because  Bill  Dukes  told  me 
to  do  it.  He  and  his  folks  had  favored  me  in 

[193.1 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

many  ways.  He  said  he  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  Miss  Ann,  and  that  she  didn't  want 
to  be  pestered  wi'  letters,  so  I  fetched  it  here 
and  handed  it  over  to  Tom  Dukes." 

"  And  you  see  what's  come  of  it  all,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Grierson,  solemnly,  with  a  gest 
ure  toward  the  wreck  on  the  stretcher. 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  to  say  some 
thing  about  it  to  Miss  Ann?  "  inquired  Mose- 
ley. 

"  It  certainly  did,"  responded  Mrs.  Grierson, 
with  emphasis,  "  but  I  didn't  know  her  so 
mighty  well,  and  I  went  about  it  the  wrong 
way,  I  reckon.  Anyhow,  she  cut  me  up. 
That  was — oh,  ever  so  long  ago.  But  one  day 
durin'  last  summer,  I  met  Ann  Briscoe  in  the 
road,  and  she  asked  me  plump  and  plain  what 
I  meant  when  I  spoke  to  her  about  a  letter. 
Well,  she  had  cut  me  up,  and  I  paid  her  back 
then  and  there.  Says  I,  '  When  I  wanted  to 
tell  you,  you  wouldn't  listen,  and  now  I'll  not 
tell  you.'  " 

"  And  that  ain't  all,"  said  Mr.  Grierson,  rais- 
['94] 


Flingin*  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

ing  his  peevish  voice.  "  Every  letter  that  ever 
passed  betwixt  you  fell  into  the  hands  of  Tom 
or  Bill  Dukes.  Why,  I've  hearn  'em  laugh 
about  the  way  they  worked  it.  Well,  Bill  and 
Tom  Dukes  they  done  it.  I  says  to  Bill  Dukes, 
'  You  didn't  git  the  gal  after  all,  and  I'm 
blasted  well  glad  of  it.'  One  word  fetched  on 
another  and  both  of  'em  lit  on  me,  and  I  ain't 
never  walked  a  step  from  that  day  to  this." 

"  You  know  what  I  believe,  Phil  Moseley?  " 
suddenly  remarked  Mrs.  Grierson.  "  I  believe 
Providence  has  worked  for  you  from  the  first 
jump." 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  replied  Moseley,  shaking 
his  head.  And  yet  he  had  often  noted  some 
very  curious  coincidences  in  his  career.  Nev 
ertheless 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  he,  giving  voice  to  his 
thought,  "  the  two  men  who  have  done  me 
the  foulest  wrong  arc  alive  and  prospering." 

"  They're  alive  and  prospering  to-day," 
commented  Mrs.  Grierson,  "  but  the  Almighty 
don't  go  by  human  clocks.  Don't  the  Good 
[195] 


<T7ie  Making  of  a  Statesman 

Book  say  some'r's  that  a  thousand  years  ain't 
more'n  a  minute  wi'  Him?  " 

"That  is  true,"  said  Moseley,  rising  to  take 
his  departure.  He  promised  to  come  again, 
after  assuring  and  reassuring  Mr.  Grierson  that 
he  bore  no  ill-will.  "  You  were  but  a  blind 
tool  in  the  hands  of  these  men,"  he  explained 
to  the  old  man.  "  Both  of  them  will  have  to 
answer  to  me  for  their  rascality." 

"  Well,  thank  the  Lord  for  that  much!  "  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Grierson.  "  You'll  find  that 
when  they  have  to  toe  the  mark,  they  won't 
be  so  full  of  fight  as  they  are  when  they  jump 
on  a  man  when  his  back's  turned." 

Philip  Moseley  bade  the  couple  good-by, 
and  was  soon  skimming  along  the  red  road, 
enjoying  to  the  utmost  the  swift  undulations 
of  the  spirited  animal  he  was  riding.  He  sat 
perfectly  erect  in  the  saddle,  his  bridle-hand 
low,  and  his  right  arm  hanging  easily  by  his 
side.  He  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left.  He  saluted  or  raised  his  hat  to  every 
person  he  met  on  the  road,  or  passed  going  in 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

the  same  direction.  There  were  a  number  of 
vehicles  going  his  way,  and  in  one  of  them  sat 
Judge  Barksdale,  who  was  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  a  man  of  affairs,  and  one  of  the  most 
popular  citizens  of  the  county.  It  was  Judge 
Barksdale,  who,  exercising  his  neighborly  im 
pulses,  took  occasion  to  point  out  to  the  court 
of  ordinary  the  necessity  of  appointing  an  ad 
ministrator  for  the  Moseley  estate. 

"  Now,  that  is  what  I  call  riding,"  exclaimed 
the  Judge,  as  Philip  Moseley  sped  past.  "  If 
the  horse  was  to  turn  a  somersault  and  light  on 
his  feet,  you'd  see  that  chap  right  where 
he  is.  Why,  I  believe  that's  the  Moseley 
horse."  Molly,  his  daughter,  was  sure  of  it. 
"Well,  well!  I  -hope  it's  Phil,"  said  the  old 
man. 

Now,  when  Ann  Briscoe  reached  home  from 
church  that  afternoon,  it  chanced  that  her 
father  was  asleep.  When  he  awoke,  the  inci 
dent  of  the  morning  had  passed  from  his  mind, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  was  ready  to  retire  for 
the  night  that  he  remembered  it. 
[197] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

"  You've  heard  the  news,  I  reckon,"  he  re. 
marked  to  Ann. 

"  No,  I've  heard  none." 

"Well,  they  say  Phil  Moseley  has  come 
back."  He  did  not  look  at  Ann. 

"  Who  brought  the  news?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Why,  old  Bob.  After  you  went  to  church, 
I  heard  a  mighty  shuffling  and  scrambling  on 
the  front  porch,  and  there  was  old  Bob  in  such 
a  hurry  and  flurry  that  he  scarcely  had  time 
to  wait  for  what  he  came  after." 

"  And  what  did  he  want,  pray?  " 

"  He  said  Elviry  sent  him  for  the  account- 
books;  and  when  I  asked  him  what  in  the 
world  she  wanted  with  'em,  he  replied  that  he 
thought  Phil  Moseley  had  come  back.  I  told 
old  Bob  flat  and  plain  that  Moseley  had  no 
more  to  do  with  the  accounts  than  a  man  in 
the  next  county." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  said  Ann,  trying  to 
assume  the  attitude  which  would  enable  her  to 
crush  Moseley,  should  he  dare  to  speak  to  her 
for  any  reason  or  purpose  whatever. 


Flingin1  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

"  But  I  considered  the  matter,"  her  father 
went  on,  "  and  rather  than  give  Moseley  the 
idea  that  we  have  anything  to  hide,  I  told  old 
Bob  to  take  the  books  and  mosey  along  with 


'em." 


The  next  morning  bright  and  early,  Ann 
Briscoe  was  up  attending  to  the  various  duties 
and  responsibilities  which  she  had  gradually 
taken  upon  herself.  She  felt  unduly  elated,  as 
she  supposed,  and  she  tried,  with  some  deter 
mination,  to  put  the  feeling  aside.  She  had 
long  ago  reduced  the  romantic  illusions  of  her 
youth  to  a  consistency  of  fibre  (as  it  were) 
which  the  fluttering  moths  of  sentiment  could 
not  successfully  assail.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a 
period  full  of  very  pleasant  memories,  and  after 
breakfast  Ann  decided  to  reread  a  part  of  her 
diary.  Her  notes  covered  only  a  year  and  a 
half,  but  during  that  time  she  had  been  quite 
faithful  in  jotting  down  the  sentiments  and 
emotions  with  which  her  mind  was  charged. 

She  reached  her  desk,  ransacked  the  shelves 
of  the  library,  and  then,  flinging  up  her  hands, 
[199] 


fke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

fell  upon  a  sofa  as  if  she  had  been  shot.  She 
had  suddenly  remembered  that  the  diary  had 
been  placed  among  the  books  containing  the 
accounts  of  the  Moseley  plantation.  Her 
swift  imagination  could  perceive  Philip  Mose 
ley  reading  and  laughing  over  the  innocent 
confessions  therein  set  forth.  Her  most  inti 
mate  emotions,  as  she  supposed,  had  been 
faithfully  interpreted  and  written  out,  and  the 
thought  of  it  caused  her  to  write  in  agony. 
But  the  young  woman's  collapse  was  of  no 
long  duration. 

Suspended  from  the  ceiling  of  the  back 
porch,  there  hung  a  steel  triangle,  and  along 
side  it  a  piece  of  steel  about  ten  inches  long 
with  which  to  strike  it.  This  was  known  on 
the  Briscoe  place  as  Miss  Ann's  gong.  It  was 
as  loud  as  a  country  church-bell,  and  was  used 
to  summon  field-hands  to  dinner,  or  to  call 
such  of  the  servants  as  were  not  in  sight.  One 
blow  upon  this  gong  meant  a  particular  ser 
vant,  two  blows  another,  and  three  blows  were 
a  call  for  the  man  who  attended  to  the  mules 
and  horses. 

[200] 


Flingir?  Jim  and  Hi's  Fool-Killer 

Ann  Briscoe  hurried  from  the  library  to  this 
gong,  and  struck  three  blows  with  such  vehe 
mence  that  the  man  (he  was  grooming  Miss 
Ann's  saddle-horse)  dropped  everything  and 
ran  to  the  house  as  rapidly  as  if  he  had  been 
called  to  quench  a  fire. 

"  Saddle  my  horse,"  commanded  the  lady, 
as  soon  as  the  servant  came  within  hearing 
distance. 

Ann  made  no  great  preparations.  She 
hastily  adjusted  a  riding-skirt,  put  on  her  gar 
den-hat,  a  wide-brimmed  affair  with  a  touch  of 
blue  in  its  make-up,  and  began  to  pace  impa 
tiently  up  and  down.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
negro  came  running,  leading  the  horse  at  a 
swinging  trot.  By  the  time  he  reached  the 
horse-block,  Ann  Briscoe  was  there  also,  and 
the  next  moment  she  was  riding  toward  the 
Moseley  place,  almost  as  rapidly  as  the  horse 
could  go.  The  sweeping  rush  of  the  wind  did 
her  good,  and  the  movements  of  the  horse  had 
a  soothing  effect  upon  her  nerves. 

She  was  soon  in  a  position  to  see  that  even  if 

[201] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

Philip  Moseley  had  read  and  gloated  over  the 
confessions  of  her  youth,  no  cataclysm  had  oc 
curred.  The  Moseley  house  was  still  stand 
ing,  as  grim  and  as  lonely  as  ever.  No,  not 
altogether  lonely,  for,  though  the  blinds  were 
tightly  closed,  there  was  Elviry  wearing  Uncle 
Bobuel's  hat,  and  sweeping  the  front  walk. 

Elviry  saw  Miss  Ann  coming,  and  knew  that 
trouble  was  brewing  somewhere.  Being  a 
very  excitable  negro,  she  dropped  the  broom 
and  ran  to  the  gate. 

"What  de  matter,  Miss  Ann?  Name  er 
goodness,  what  de  matter?  "  cried  Elviry. 

"Hush!"  responded  the  lady.  "Don't 
talk  so  loud.  How  dare  you  send  after  those 
books  when  I  was  away?  You've  ruined  me!  " 
Her  voice  was  charged  with  both  indignation 
and  grief. 

"  Why,  Miss  Ann,  I  thought  de  books  wuz 
all  right.  I " 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  talk  so  loud?  " 

"  Dey  ain't  nobody  in  de  house.  Marse 
Phil  done  gone  off  some'rs.  He  ain't  never 

[202] 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

totch  de  books.  Dey  er  layin'  right  whar  I 
put  um  at." 

"  Go  and  bring  them  here."  Miss  Ann 
breathed  easier.  She  soon  had  the  precious 
diary  in  her  hand.  "  I'll  burn  you,"  she  cried, 
exultantly,  shaking  it  before  her  face.  "  I'll 
burn  you  the  minute  I  get  home."  Without 
another  word,  she  went  galloping  away. 

Elviry  stood  looking  after  the  young  woman 
until  a  bend  in  the  road  hid  her  from  view. 
"Well,  well,  well!"  said  the  negro  woman, 
talking  softly  to  herself.  "  Ef  a  angel  fum 
heaven  had  come  down  here  an'  tol'  me  dat 
Ann  Briscoe  had  sump'n  she  wanter  hide,  er 
had  sump'n  wrong  in  dem  'count-books,  I 
wouldn't  'a'  b'lieved  it — dat  I  wouldn't."  She 
carried  the  books  back  in  the  house  and  tied 
them  in  bundle  form  again.  "  If  anybody  ax 
me  what's  de  'casion  er  all  de  ruination  in  de 
worl'  I'll  tell  um  it's  money  an'  niggers.  I'll 
say  it  any  whar!  " 

Just  beyond  the  bend  in  the  road  which  had 
hid  Ann  Briscoe  from  Elviry's  eyes,  there  was 
[203] 


(the  Making  of  a  Statesman 

a  hill  which  commanded  a  view  of  pretty  much 
all  of  the  settlement.  The  houses  that  could 
not  be  seen  were  small  and  insignificant  in 
deed.  This  hill  with  the  primitive  forest  on 
one  side  and  cultivated  or  fallow  land  on  the 
other,  fell  away  to  a  valley  in  which  there  was 
a  number  of  comfortable  houses.  Here  lived 
Mr.  William  Dukes  and  his  brother  Tom,  and 
not  far  away,  Judge  Barksdale  had  his  home. 

When  Ann  Briscoe  reached  the  top  of  this 
hill,  she  saw  three  men.  Two  were  walking 
together,  and  the  third  was  moving  toward 
them.  As  the  figure  of  this  third  man  was  un 
familiar  to  her,  Ann  judged  that  it  must  be 
Philip  Moseley,  though  he  was  too  far  away 
for  his  features  to  be  clearly  visible.  On  the 
right,  in  a  piece  of  fallow  land,  a  most  unusual 
movement  caught  Ann's  eye  and  arrested  her 
attention.  It  was  the  stooping  figure  of  a 
negro,  running  toward  such  cover  as  a  clump 
of  sassafras  saplings  would  afford. 

Ann  Briscoe  recognized  the  stooping  figure 
as  Flingin*  Jim.  Some  instinct  told  her  that 
[204] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

trouble  was  brewing.  And  this  was  indeed 
the  case,  for  when  the  three  men  met  in  the 
road,  there  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then 
Philip  Moseley  proceeded  to  express  his  opin 
ion  of  Messrs.  William  and  Thomas  Dukes  in 
language  that  was  more  emphatic  than  refined. 
In  short,  Moseley  employed  terms  which  in  the 
South  (and,  indeed,  wherever  men  are  amen 
able  to  insult)  always  mean  a  personal  en 
counter. 

Moseley  had  armed  himself  with  a  stout 
hickory,  for  he  knew  what  to  expect.  But 
Mr.  William  Dukes  was  armed  with  a  pistol, 
and  this  he  attempted  to  draw,  but  Moseley 
was  quicker,  delivering  a  blow  with  his  blud 
geon  which  sent  the  man  reeling.  Mean 
while,  Mr.  Thomas  Dukes  made  a  rush  at 
Moseley  and  the  two  clinched,  engaging  in  a 
struggle  which  required  all  of  Moseley's  atten 
tion.  In  a  moment  Mr.  William  Dukes  had 
recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  get  his  pistol 
out.  He  advanced  close  to  the  struggling 
men. 

[205] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
With  a  cry  of  warning  on  her  lips,  Ann  Bris- 
coe  spurred  her  horse  forward.  What  she 
hoped  or  intended  to  do  she  never  knew. 
Whatever  it  was,  she  was  too  late  for  its  per 
formance,  for  as  her  horse  plunged  forward, 
she  saw  Flingin'  Jim  rush  from  behind  the 
clump  of  bushes,  whirl  his  body  around  and 
straighten  his  left  arm  quickly.  Apparently 
responsive  to  these  movements,  Mr.  William 
Dukes  threw  his  arms  out  wildly,  his  pistol 
went  off  in  the  air,  and  he  sank  upon  the 
ground. 

By  this  time,  Moseley  had  detached  himself 
from  his  antagonist,  and  by  a  few  well-directed 
blows  soon  had  him  crying  for  quarter,  so 
that  when  Ann  Briscoe  reached  the  scene, 
peace  reigned  direfully.  Perceiving  which,  the 
young  woman  made  no  pause,  except  that  oc 
casioned  by  her  horse,  which  shied  when  it 
came  to  the  body  of  Mr.  William  Dukes.  Ann 
was  strong  enough,  but  the  sight  of  blood,  to 
gether  with  the  strain  under  which  she  had 
labored,  was  too  much  for  her.  Her  face, 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 
which  was  white,  grew  whiter  still  when  she 
looked  at  Moseley. 

"Ann!"  he  cried;  but  she  shook  her  head 
and  rode  on,  and,  when  she  reached  home, 
went  straight  to  her  room  and  wept  because 
she  had  not  stopped  and  turned  when  his  voice 
called  her  name. 

Flingin'  Jim,  meantime,  after  he  had  gone 
through  the  singular  performance  which  Ann 
Briscoe  had  witnessed,  went  running  to  Judge 
Barksdale's  and  informed  that  gentleman  that 
a  big  fight  was  going  on  "  down  de  big  road 
*twix'  Marse  Phil  an*  de  Dukeses."  Judge 
Barksdale,  piloted  by  Flingin'  Jim,  hurried  to 
the  seat  of  war;  but  when  he  arrived,  the 
trouble  was  over. 

"  Hello,  Tom!  "  Judge  Barksdale  exclaimed, 
"  you've  got  life  in  you.  I'm  afeared  your 
brother  Bill's  a-goner.  Well,  I've  made  two 
predictions  in  this  settlement,  and  they've 
both  panned  out.  One  is  that  a  man  with  a 
good  hickory  is  equal  to  two  armed  men  at 
close  quarters;  t'other  is  that  Bill  an'  Tom 
[207] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

Dukes  would  some  day  wake  up  the  wrong 
passenger." 

"You  say  that  Bill  Dukes  is  dead?"  in 
quired  Philip  Moseley,  with  some  concern. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  way/'  replied  Mr.  Barks- 
dale,  in  a  judicial  tone. 

"  Why,  I  never  hit  the  man  but  once,  and 
he  was  on  his  feet  some  time  after  that.  I 
heard  his  pistol  go  off,  and  seeing  him  fall  in 
a  heap,  I  thought  he  had  accidentally  shot  him 
self." 

"  No,  sir;  there's  a  soft  place  on  the  side  of 
his  head  here,  jest  about  the  size  of  a  walnut. 
He  must  'a'  butted  ag'in'  the  eend  of  your 
hickory.  Jim,  run  over  to  Doc'  Dawson's  and 
tell  him  to  come  here  as  hard  as  ever  he  can; 
and  do  you  come  back  by  Dukes's  and  tell 
some  of  the  hands  to  hitch  up  some  sort  of  a 
contrapment  and  come  after  the  dead  and 
wounded — if  so  be  Bill  is  dead." 

It   was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  Judge 

Barksdale  that  he  was  never  flustered.     Under 

• 

all  circumstances  he  was  cool  and  self-con 
tained. 

[208] 


Flingin*  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

"  You  fellers  must  have  some  good  reason 
for  this  fracas,"  he  remarked  to  Moseley;  and 
when  the  latter  told  him  briefly  of  the  causes 
that  led  up  to  it,  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and 
nodded.  "  I  endorse  it  as  a  human  bein',  but 
not  as  an  officer  of  the  law.  And  that's  the 
reason  you  left  your  prop'ty  hangin'  in  the  air, 
is  it?  Well,  it's  a  better  reason  than  I  thought 
you  had,  but  it  won't  hold  water.  Young  peo 
ple  in  love  are  fools,  and  they  never  come  to 
their  senses  till  long  after  they  are  married.  If 
you  could  ketch  and  spread  out  in  a  book  all 
the  unspoken  thoughts  that  fly  up  the  chim- 
bley-flue  while  married  folks  are  settin'  before 
the  fire,  you'd  have  a  mighty  interestin'  vol 
ume." 

"  Is  Bill  dead?  "  asked  Tom  Dukes,  who 
had  been  helped  to  a  sitting  posture  by  his 
late  antagonist. 

"  It's  more'n  likely,"  replied  Judge  Barks- 
dale;  "  but  the  Doctor'll  tell  us.  I  see  him  a- 


comin'  now." 


"  William's  not  dead,"   the  physician  re- 
[209] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 
marked,  after  a  careful  examination.     "  But 
he  may  die.     What  was  he  hit  with?  " 

Philip  Moseley  explained  the  affair. 

The  Doctor  was  a  very  inquisitive  man. 
"  Did  anybody  see  the  fight? "  he  asked. 
There  was  no  answer  to  the  question.  "  This 
wound  on  William  is  of  the  same  kind  and 
character  as  the  one  I  found  on  that  nigger 
tramp — you  remember  him,  Judge  Barksdale 
— that  ran  after  Miss  Ann  Briscoe.  The  nig 
ger  never  knew  what  hit  him;  he  was  dead  be 
fore  he  quit  running."  That  being  the  case, 
Mr.  Barksdale  could  give  a  reasonable  expla 
nation  of  the  mystery,  but  he  remained  silent. 
He  happened  to  see  an  iron  ball  lying  in  a 
wagon-rut  near  the  side  of  the  road.  It  was, 
in  fact,  a  grape-shot,  one  of  the  relics  of  the 
war  that  had  found  its  way  to  that  section. 
He  changed  his  position  so  as  to  place  his  foot 
near  the  missile,  dropped  his  knife,  stooped  to 
recover  it,  and  transferred  both  knife  and 
grape-shot  to  his  pocket. 

Mr.  Tom  Dukes  was  badly  bruised,  but  not 
[210] 


Flingirf  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

seriously  hurt,  and  was  even  able  to  help  lift  his 
brother  into  the  light  wagon  that  soon  came. 
He  surprised  Philip  Moseley  by  inviting  him 
to  go  with  the  others  to  the  Dukes's  place. 

"  I  ain't  got  a  thing  ag'in'  ye  in  the  world, 
Phil — not  a  thing.  I've  got  some  papers 
there  that  I  want  to  give  you  wi'  my  own 
hands.  Bill  wanted  me  to  burn  'em,  an'  I  told 
'im  I  had,  but  they're  all  there." 

Those  papers  were  the  letters  written  by 
Moseley  and  Ann  Briscoe  to  each  other. 
There  were  six  of  them — three  written  by  each 
— and  they  had  never  been  opened.  Those 
he  had  written  to  the  young  lady,  Moseley 
bundled  up  and  sent  to  her  by  Flingin'  Jim, 
with  this  brief  note: 

"  DEAR  Miss  ANN:  I  send  you  three  let 
ters  that  you  should  have  received  long  ago. 
What  changes  have  taken  place  in  your  mind 
I  have  no  means  of  knowing;  but  if  the  send 
ing  of  them  to  you  at  this  late  day  (they  have 
just  been  recovered)  is  an  act  of  impertinence, 
pray  return  them  by  the  bearer." 
[211] 


cfke  Making  of  a  Statesman 

After  reading  the  note,  Miss  Ann  ques 
tioned  Flingin'  Jim  very  closely,  but  in  an  in 
direct  way,  and  thus  discovered  that  the  letters 
had  been  returned  by  Mr.  Dukes. 

"  And  how  is  Mr.  William  Dukes?  "  she  in 
quired. 

"  He  gittin*  on  mighty  well,  dey  say." 

Then  he  added:  "  I  wuz  too  fur  off.  Dat 
clump  er  bushes  whar  I  wuz  at  is  mighty  nigh 
two  hundred  yards  fum  de  road — I  done 
stepped  it  off.  An'  now  dat  man'll  git  up  fum 
his  bed,  an'  he'll  piroot  'roun'  an'  shoot  Marse 
Phil  in  de  back.  Is  dey  any  answer?  "  he 
asked. 

"No;  no  answer."  Miss  Ann  blushed  as 
she  spoke.  She  reread  the  note  in  her  own 
room.  "  He  must  think,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile  of  scorn,  "  that  women  are  as  changeable 


as  men." 


She  read  these  letters  with  mingled  emo 
tions.     They  were  the  intimate  confessions  of 
a  young  man  floundering  about  in  the  arms 
of  love  and  romance,  and  their  ardor  brought 
[212] 


Flingiri  Jim  and  His  Fool-Killer 

to  her  cheeks  a  glow  which  took  possession 
of  that  fair  field  and  remained  there.  The  last 
of  the  three  created  the  deepest  impression  on 
her  mind.  It  was  the  one  in  which  he  bade 
farewell  to  the  dreams  of  love.  It  was  melan 
choly  but  manly. 

After  going  over  the  letters  twice,  Ann 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  apparently  in 
deep  thought,  and  the  burden  of  her  reflec 
tions  found  voice.  "  I'd  give  a  pretty  to  know 
what  I  wrote  in  my  last  letter.  I'm  sure  it's 
something  mean." 

Not  many  hours  elapsed  before  Philip 
Moseley  came  knocking  at  the  Briscoe  door, 
and  Ann  herself  answered  the  summons.  The 
man  looked  at  the  woman  and  held  out  his 
arms,  and  the  woman  ran  to  the  shelter 
ing  embrace  with  a  sigh  of  happiness  and 
content. 

Some  weeks  later,  Flingin'  Jim  found  his 
mammy  picking  a  turkey.  "  Who  dat  turkey 
fer?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  you  ax  me  dat  fer,  boy?  You  know 
[213] 


The  Making  of  a  Statesman 

Marse  Phil  ain't  gwine  ter  let  nobody  but  me 
cook  de  dinner  fer  de  infair." 

"  Dat  so;  dey  gwine  ter  marry  ter-night. 
Well,  suh!  I  like  ter  fergit  it.  I  been  huntin' 
fer  my  fool-killer,  an'  marryin'  ain't  been  in 
my  min'." 

"  Marse  Barksdale  come  by  an'  lef  a  ball  fer 
you  des  now.  He  call  it  a  grave-shot.  It's  in 
dar  on  de  bed." 

"  It  may  be  a  grave-shot/'  replied  Flingin' 
Jim,  "  but  I  calls  it  my  fool-killer." 

"  Ef  it  fetch  you  ter  de  gallows  I'll  never  tell 
folks  dat  'twan't  rightly  named." 

Flingin'  Jim  laughed,  saying,  "Yander  go 
Marse  Phil  an'  Miss  Ann.  Dey  er  sho  mighty 
chummy." 

"  Dey  got  de  right  ter  be,"  replied  Elviry. 


[214] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

of  the  forerunners  of  Christmas  and 
holidays  leading  into  the  New  Year, 
and  a  very  welcome  one,  too,  is  Aunt 
Minervy  Ann.  Sometimes  she  comes  as  early 
as  October,  and  occasionally  as  late  as  the  last 
of  November.  Then,  after  lingering  for  a  day 
or  two,  she  goes  back  to  Halcyondale.  She 
comes  in  through  the  front  door,  goes  through 
the  hallway  to  the  back  porch,  and  hangs  her 
hat  or  bonnet  on  a  nail  near  the  refrigerator. 
Then,  after  looking  in  the  kitchen  to  see  if  the 
cook  is  a  new  one,  she  comes  back  into  the 
house.  Praising  the  neatness  of  everything, 
she  gets  a  broom  and  a  dust-pan,  and  proceeds 
to  find  dirt  and  dust  and  cobwebs  where  no 
one  else  would  ever  look  for  them.  Some 
times  this  pleases  the  lady  of  the  house  and 
sometimes  it  doesn't;  but  praise  or  blame  is 
all  one  to  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  when  she's  in  the 
[217] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

house  of  her  friends.  Once  when  the  lady  of 
the  house  asked  her  somewhat  sharply  why 
she  didn't  come  and  take  charge  of  the  estab 
lishment,  her  reply  was  that  if  she  lived  in  At 
lanta  she'd  be  compelled  to  have  money. 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  the  lady,  somewhat 
indignantly.  "  And  don't  you  suppose  we  are 
willing  to  pay  you  good  wages?  " 

"  I  ain't  s'posin'  nothin'  'tall  'bout  it,  ma'am. 
What  I  know  is  dat  I  wouldn't  take  no  wages 
fum  you-all.  I  ain't  never  tuck  none  fum 
Marse  Tumlin  Perdue.  De  las'  time  I  'fused 
ter  take  um,  he  laugh  an'  say  dat  he  b'lieve  I 
wuz  totin'  off  mo'  dan  my  wages  wuz  wuff 
anyhow.  When  I  look  at  'im  right  hard  fer 
ter  see  what  he  mean  by  dat  kinder  talk,  he 
look  back  at  me  des  as  hard,  an'  say,  '  I  tell 
you  de  fact  trufe,  Minervy  Ann,  ef  I  wuz  ter 
pay  you  de  wages  you  done  'arned,  I'd  hatter 
sell  my  house  an'  lot,  an'  den  you  wouldn't  be 
half  paid/  but  Marse  Tumlin  is  allers  a-proj- 
ickin'." 

The   probability   is,   however,   that   Major 

[218] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

Perdue  meant  every  word  he  said.  He  be 
longs  to  and  was  brought  up  with  an  emotional 
generation  —  a  generation  which  was  not 
ashamed  of  its  feelings,  and  which  mad^  no 
sort  of  effort  to  hide  its  loves,  its  hates,  and 
the  sentiments  that  are  natural  to  a  high- 
strung  race.  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  was  brought 
up  in  this  atmosphere,  and  her  nature  responds 
like  an  echo  to  whatever  is  emotional. 

This  year,  Aunt  Minervy  Ann's  preparatory 
visit  was  made  in  the  middle  of  October,  the 
excuse  for  it  being  the  State  Fair,  which  was 
in  progress  about  that  time,  though  she  ad 
mitted  that  she  hadn't  been  inside  the  grounds 
and  didn't  expect  to  go,  being  afraid,  as  she 
said,  of  the  "  farrer  dealers  an'  de  men  what  do 
trick-work  wid  de  playin'-kyards."  She  had 
come  in  as  usual,  made  a  tour  of  inspection, 
and  then  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  "  Dey 
tells  me,"  she  remarked,  ''  dat  you-all  been 
havin'  great  gwines-on  up  here." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  was  asked. 

"  Well,  I  hear  Miss  Vallie  readin'  in  de  paper 


Making  of  a  Statesman 
'bout  you  bein'  on  de  jury  down  dar  at  de  jail; 
an'  I  see  wid  my  own  eyes  dat  you  got  a  new 
cook.    Ef  all  dat  ain't  nuff  fer  ter  fret  de  Mis- 
tiss  here,  I  dunner  what  is." 

"  Well,"  was  the  reply,  "  the  jury  I  was  on 
didn't  have  to  go  to  jail — and  the  cook  seems 
to  be  doing  pretty  well." 

Aunt  Minervy  Ann  laughed.  "  Well,  suh, 
I  hear  de  new-fangled  niggers  say  dat  when 
dey  go  in  de  court-house,  it's  all  de  same 
ez  gwine  ter  jail,  kaze  sho  ez  dey  git  in  one 
dey'll  Ian'  in  de  yuther.  It's  des  a  way  dey 
got,  an'  dey  can't  no  mo'  he'p  it  dan  dey  kin 
he'p  totin'  off  what  ain't  der'n.  An'  ez  fer 
dat  cook,  you'll  hear  fum  'er;  you  sho  will. 
She  ailin'  right  now;  she  got  de  swell-foot, 
and  some  fine  day,  when  you  got  company, 
she'll  sen'  you  word  dat  her  feet  hurt  'er  so 
bad  she  can't  come.  Now,  you  mark  my 
words;  I  done  seed  dat  sort  befo'." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you?  "  said  the  lady  of  the 
house,  turning  to  me. 

"You  can't  fool  de  Mistiss!"  exclaimed 
[220] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

Aunt  Minervy  Ann,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  hear 
talk  dat  de  Mistiss  gwine  ter  have  some  er  her 
Northron  kinnery  wid  'er  fer  de  holidays. 
Well,  dey  won't  pester  me,  kaze  Hamp  done 
sell  one  bale  er  cotton  fer  mo'  money  dan  he 
got  fer  three  bales  a  while  ago,  an'  I  kin  pick 
up  an'  come  most  any  time — ef  not  Chris'mus, 
den  some  yuther  time.  Marse  Tumlin  say  de 
reason  cotton  wuth  so  much  mo'  is  bekaze  dey 
so  many  new  cotton  fact'ries  been  put  up.  Ef 
dat  de  case,  I  dunner  why  de  white  folks  don't 
go  right  ahead  an'  put  up  ten  a  day.  Ef  dey 
make  cotton  wuth  mo'  it  look  like  ter  me  dat 
dey'd  have  one  at  eve'y  cross-road." 

When  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  was  invited  to 
visit  us  on  Christmas  as  usual,  she  became 
somewhat  serious.  "  I  know'd  I'd  git  a  invite 
ef  I  fished  wid  a  long  nuff  line  an'  a  strong  miff 
hook,"  she  remarked.  "  I  speck  you-all  will 
git  ter  b'lievin'dat  I  des  come  'roun'  fer  sump'n 
ter  eat;  but  when  it  come  ter  fishin'  fer  vittles, 
I  let  you  know  dat  dey  ain't  many  places  whar 
I  goes  ter  fish  at;  dat  dey  ain't!  De  folks 

[221] 


°fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 
down  dar  at  home  will  all  tell  you  dat.  Ef  I 
wuz  stayin'  here  all  de  year  I'd  go  ter  Marse 
Tumlin's  fer  Chris'mus,  but  bein's  I'm  dar  all 
de  year,  it  does  me  good  ter  come  here. 
Yes'm,  I'll  come;  I'll  come  de  day  befo',  an'  ef 
I  don't  'am  my  dinner  de  Mistiss  nee'nter  gib 
me  none." 

Aunt  Minervy  Ann  then  went  on  to  tell 
us  all  the  neighborhood  news — that  peculiarly 
interesting  gossip,  which  never  by  any  chance 
gets  into  the  newspapers,  and  which  is  all  the 
more  interesting  on  that  account.  Finally, 
having  exhausted  her  budget,  she  threw  her 
head  back  and  asked  me  if  I  remembered  Miss 
Puss  Gresham.  Not  caring  to  wait  on  my  un 
certain  memory,  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  went  on: 
"  She  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  slip  of  a  gal  when 
you  wuz  down  dar,  suh;  an'  she  ain't  nothin' 
but  a  slip  yit,  dough  she  ain't  no  chicken. 
She'll  tell  you  'erse'f  dat  she's  forty  ef  dey 
ain't  no  men  folks  'roun',  an'  I  speck  ef  you'd 
put  ane'r  year  er  two  on  ter  dat  you  wouldn't 
miss  it  so  mighty  fur." 

[222] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

She  paused  and  laughed  silently,  as  if  enjoy 
ing  some  thought  of  her  own  which  she  could 
not  afford  to  divulge.  Then,  after  a  while — 
"  Dey  ain't  no  needs  ter  ax  you  ef  you  knows 
Jedge  Ballard,  kaze  he  wuz  done  dar  an'  well 
seasoned  long  'fo'  you  ever  had  de  idee  er  corn- 
in'  ter  dat  town.  I  dunner  what  make  um 
call  'im  Jedge,  kaze  he  ain't  never  jedged  noth- 
in'  not  sence  I  been  knowin'  'im.  I  up  an' 
axed  Marse  Tumlin  one  day  how  come  dey 
call  dat  man  Jedge,  an'  he  say  it's  bekaze  he 
got  sech  a  keen  eye  fer  hoss-flesh;  but  Marse 
Tumlin  won't  never  talk  sense  ter  me,  not 
less'n  dey's  trouble  on  han'.  Well,  anyhow, 
dey  ain't  nothin'  wrong  'bout  de  Jedge  but  de 
entitlements,  an'  dat  ain't  much,  kaze  dey's 
men  by  de  dozen  down  dar  whar  we-all  live  at, 
an'  dey  calls  um  Maje  an'  Gener'l  an'  Colonel, 
an'  lots  un  um  ain't  never  smelt  gunpowder 
whar  dey's  any  fightin'  gwine  on. 

"  But  dat  ar  Jedge  Ballard,  he  went  to  war, 
an'  dey  say  he  fit  right  up  ter  de  las'  minnit. 
Dat  what  dey  say,  but  one  thing  I  know 
[223] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

mighty  well — ef  de  Yankees  had  V  been  wim- 
men  folks  de  Jedge  would  'a'  broke  an'  run  'fo' 
dey  fire  a  gun,  an'  he'd  'a'  been  runnin'  yit  ef 
dey'd  give  chase  atter  'im.  De  reason  er  dat, 
I  speck,  is  kaze  he  come  ter  town  a  country 
chap,  way  back  yander  befo'  de  war,  an* 
whirled  inter  makin'  his  livin'  by  clerkin'  in  a 
grocery  sto'  whar  dey  had  dram  fer  ter  sell. 
De  reason  I  know  'bout  dat  is  bekaze  he  useter 
gi'  me  a  thimbleful  now  an'  den  when  I'd  patch 
his  cloz  fer  'im  er  put  buttons  on  his  pants. 
He  live  wid  de  man  he  clerk  fer,  an'  de  man 
had  gals,  but  de  Jedge  useter  have  all  his  meals 
sent  ter  de  sto'  ceppin'  on  Sundays,  an'  den 
he'd  take  his  foot  in  his  han'  an'  go  home  fer 
ter  see  his  folks.  In  dat  way,  he  never  wuz 
flung  wid  de  wimmen  folks  much,  an'  it  got  so 
atter  while  dat  he  wouldn't  go  whar  dey  wuz 
nohow  you  could  fix  it.  I  know,  suh,  fer  I 
done  his  washin'  fum  de  day  dat  he  had  ter  pay 
fer  it  wid  his  own  money. 

"  It's  de  trufe,  suh — in  my  day  an'  time  I've 
seed  lots  er  men  skeer'd  er  wimmen,  an'  good 

[224] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

men,  too,  but  I  ain't  never  see  no  man  ez  bad 
skeer'd  un  urn  ez  dat  ar  Jedge  Ballard.  He 
wuz  a  mighty  shy  man  natchally,  an'  den  he 
dealt  out  dram,  an'  his  daddy  ain't  had  no 
niggers — all  dem  things  drappin'  tergedder 
kinder  made  it  wuss'n  it  moughter  been.  You 
know  yo'se'f,  suh,  how  we-all  useter  feel  'bout 
folks  what  ain't  got  no  fambly,  ez  you  may  say, 
ner  no  niggers.  De  feelin'  wuz  dar,  an*  'twuz 
bleedge  ter  show  itse'f.  I  know  mighty  well 
I  had  it  strong  in  me,  an'  Hain't  all  gone  yit — 
no,  bless  you!  'tain't  all  gone  yit. 

"Well,  dar  he  wuz,  ma'am,  shy  ez  a  did- 
apper,  an'  hidin'  out  an'  runnin'  'roun'  corn- 
ders  fer  ter  keep  fum  meetin'  de  wimmen  folks, 
makin'  money  right  along,  an'  wid  nobody  ter 
spen'  it  on.  An'  den  dar  wuz  Miss  Puss,  age- 
in'  a  little  maybe,  but  none  ter  hurt,  an'  a  mon- 
stus  fine  'oman  she  is,  too,  mighty  nigh  by  her- 
se'f,  kaze  you  wouldn't  hardly  count  her  ma 
ter  be  alive,  she  so  ol'  an'  weasly.  I  lookt  at 
um,  I  did,  an'  I  say  ter  myse'f  dat  dey  mus'  be 
sump'n  wrong  dat  oughter  be  sot  right,  Dey 
[225] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

calls  me  a  mighty  meddler  down  home,  an'  I 
speck  I  is;  but  it  look  like  ter  me  dat  when  I 
see  sump'n  all  crossways  an'  slanchendicklar,  I 
can't  set  still  tell  I  try  ter  git  it  right.  An* 
dey  ain't  many  times,  ma'am,  dat  I  fails,  ef  I 
does  say  it  myse'f. 

"  Miss  Puss  is  about  ez  skeer'd  er  de  men  ez 
Jedge  Ballard  is  er  de  wimmen.  I  been  tellin' 
'er  dat  she  des  puttin'  on,  but  I  don't  speck 
she  is,  kaze  you  can't  put  on  like  dat,  an'  keep 
it  put  on  when  you  think  nobody  ain't  watch- 
in'  you.  Wellum,  ez  I  tell  you,  I  been  doin' 
de  fine  washin'  fer  bofe  un  um — der  collars  an' 
cuffs,  der  shirts  an'  der  shirt-waists,  an'  fer 
'bout  a  year  now  I  been  talkin'  kinder  ram- 
blin'  like — 'bout  Miss  Puss  when  I'm  wid  de 
Jedge,  an'  'bout  de  Jedge  when  I'm  wid  Miss 
Puss.  One  time,  des  ter  see  what  de  upshot 
un  it  would  be,  I  put  one  er  de  Jedge's  shirts, 
de  best  one  he  got,  in  Miss  Puss's  bundle,  an' 
one  er  Miss  Puss's  fine  shirt-waists  in  de 
Jedge's  bundle,  an'  I  slipped  out  fum  bofe 
places  des  ez  quick  ez  I  could. 

[226] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

"  Dis  wuz  one  Friday,  an'  dough  I  know'd 
mighty  well  dat  de  Jedge'd  want  his  fine  shirt 
fer  Sunday,  an'  dat  Miss  Puss'd  have  a  duck  fit 
'bout  her  waist,  I  never  went  nigh  um  tell  de 
next  Monday  mornin';  an'  I  sorter  hung  back 
den,  kaze  I  wanted  ter  have  um  stirred  up.  I 
went  after  Miss  Puss's  cloze  fust,  an'  she,  stid- 
der  bein'  mad,  wuz  in  a  mighty  good  humor. 
I  howdied  wid  'er,  an'  axed  ef  her  cloze  wuz  all 
ready,  an'  she  'low  dey  wuz.  When  I  went  in 
'er  room,  de  fust  thing  I  seed  wuz  de  Jedge's 
shirt  on  de  foot  er  'er  bed.  I  say,  '  Well !  dis 
knocks  me,  Miss  Puss;  whar  you  git  'im  an* 
what  his  name? '  She  make  out  she  dunner 
what  I'm  a-talkin'  'bout,  but  she  can't  fool  me 
— dey  wuz  des  a  hint  er  red  in  her  face  dat  I 
ain't  never  see  dar  befo'.  Den  I  'low,  '  Well, 
ef  dis  don't  bang  my  time!  Here  one  er  Jedge 
Ballard's  best  shirts,  an'  I  b'lieve  in  my  soul, 
Miss  Puss,  dat  you  been  tryin'  it  on! '  Wel- 
lum,  she  got  dat  red  in  de  face  dat  her  own 
ma  wouldn't  'a'  hardly  know'd  'er.  She  sing 
out,  she  did,  '  Why,  Aunt  Minervy  Ann,  you 
[227] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

oughter  be  'shame  er  yo'se'f  ter  have  sech  talk 
ez  dat  right  befo'  my  face/  I  say,  '  Des  look 
at  de  shirt  fer  you'se'f ;  ef  somebody  ain't  been 
a-projickin'  wid  it  I'll  eat  it  widout  salt.' ' 

Aunt  Minervy  Ann  paused  to  laugh  at  the 
recollection  of  Miss  Puss's  discomfiture.  Then 
she  went  on:  "  Wellum,  her  face  got  red  ez  a 
beet — I  didn't  know  she  had  dat  much  blood 
in  'er.  She  say,  '  I  did  spread  it  out,  Aunt 
Minervy  Ann,  but  dat  wuz  bekaze  I  didn't 
know  what  kinder  gyarment  it  wuz — but  ez  fer 
tryin'  it  on — oh,  I  think  you  ought  ter  be 
'shame  er  yo'se'f ! '  I  'low : '  Well,  you  nee'nter 
'buze  me,  Miss  Puss,  kaze  I  ain't  never  tried  to 
put  it  on.  I  speck  I'll  hatter  wash  it  an'  do  it 
up  ag'in.  Jedge  Ballard  mighty  pertickler 
'bout  his  shirts,  yit  he's  got  nuff  ter  len'  a 
dozen  out  eve'y  week.'  Miss  Puss  look  like 
her  feelin's  wuz  hurt;  she  say,  '  Aunt  Minervy 
Ann,  I  didn't  do  a  blessid  thing  ter  dat  shirt, 
ceppin'  ter  sew  a  button  on  de  front  dar  whar 
dey  wa'n't  na'er  one.'  I  'low :  '  Button !  why, 
honey,  dey  don't  use  buttons  on  dem  kinder 

[228] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

shirts;  de  Jedge  is  got  some  little  gold  studs 
he  puts  in  dar  stidder  buttons.' 

"  Wellum,  wid  one  thing  an*  anudder,  I  kept 
de  blood  in  Miss  Puss's  face  all  de  time  I 
stayed  dat  day.  She  want  ter  take  de  button 
off,  but  I  told  her  dat  I'd  take  it  off  myse'f,  an' 
den  I  ax  'er  ef  she  ain't  miss  sump'n  out  her 
washin',  an'  she  say  she  ain't.  But  dat  started 
her,  an'  she  sarched  '  roun'.  Bimeby,  she 
turned  'roun'  wid  her  han's  raise — *  O  Aunt 
Minervy  Ann,'  she  say,  *  my  fine  waist!  It's 
gone ! '  I  'low :  *  Well,  you  kin  make  you'  min' 
easy  'bout  dat  waist.  It's  in  Jedge  Ballard's 
washin',  an'  I  bet  you  he  wore  it  roun'  all  day 
yistiddy.'  Dat  wuz  de  last  splinter  dat  made 
de  load  too  heavy.  Miss  Puss  put  'er  han's 
'fo'  her  face,  an'  come  mighty  nigh  cryin' !  *  Ef 
he  did,'  she  say,  '  don't  fetch  it  in  dis  house.' 
I  'low,  4  I'll  ax  'im  ef  he  did,  an'  ef  he  say  yes, 
I'll  take  de  waist  an'  w'ar  it  myse'f,  dough  I'll 
hatter  let  it  out  a  little  in  places.'  Wid  dat,  I 
wuz  fer  whippin'  out,  an'  goin'  on  'bout  my 
business,  but  Miss  Puss  cotch  me  'fo'  I  could 
[229] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

git  out'n  de  house;  she  say:  *  Aunt  Minervy 
Ann !  don't  you  dast  ter  say  a  word  ter  Jedge 
Ballard  'bout  dat  waist.  It's  bad  nuff  ez  'tis, 
widout  makin'  it  wuss.' 

"  I  des  had  ter  pull  'way  fum  Miss  Puss  de 
bes'  way  I  kin  widout  hurtin'  her  feelin's,  kaze 
ef  I'd  'a'  looked  at  'er  I'd  'a'  bust  out  laughin', 
an'  she  wouldn't  V  know'd  what  I  wuz  laugh- 
in'  at  no  mo'  dan  a  little  bits  er  baby.  Whilst 
I  wuz  laughin'  myse'f  mighty  nigh  ter  death, 
who  should  I  meet  but  Jedge  Ballard?  He 
say,  '  I  saw  you,  Minervy  Ann,  an'  I  'lowed 
maybe  you  wuz  gwine  atter  my  washin',  an' 
so  I  come  'cross  de  squar'  fer  ter  gi'  you  de  key 
er  my  room/  I  say,  *  You  better  come  go  dar 
wid  me,  kaze  we  got  big  business  on  our  han's. 
I  put  one  er  your  shirts  in  Miss  Puss's  washin', 
an'  one  er  her  waists  in  yone;  an'  fum  de  way 
Miss  Puss  gwine  on,  it'll  be  ez  much  ez  we  kin 
do  fer  ter  keep  down  a  scandal.'  He  'low :  '  A 
scandal?  What  in  de  name  er  goodness  does 
you  mean,  Minervy  Ann? '  I  say,  '  I  means 
dis,  suh,  dat  Miss  Puss  done  got  it  in  'er  head 
[230] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

dat  you  put  it  in  my  min'  fer  ter  change  de 
pieces — dat  what  I  mean,  suh.'  He  stop  right 
still  in  de  street,  an'  look  at  me  des  like  he  been 
pairlyzed.  I  say,  '  I  done  fix  it  all  right,  an' 
you  nee'nter  worry;  but  I  had  a  time! ' 

"  Worry ! — why,  dat  man  stood  dar  right  in 
his  tracks  an'  sweat  same  ez  ef  he'd  'a'  run  two 
mile.  He  say : '  Minervy  Ann,  why  in  de  worl' 
do  Miss  Gresham  think  dat  I'd  be  so  unpolite 
ez  ter  git  you  ter  put  one  er  my  shirts  in  her 
washin'?  In  among  my  things  I  found  some 
kind  er  conflutement  dat  de  wimmen  w'ar — 
now  s'posin'  I  wuz  ter  git  de  idee  in  my  head 
dat  Miss  Gresham  swaded  you  ter  put  it  in  dar; 
what's  she  think? '  I  'low,  '  Well,  suh,  fer  all 
you  know,  you'd  be  guessin'  right.'  He  say, 
'  Minervy  Ann,  what  under  de  sun  does  you 
mean?  '  I  say :  *  Ef  I  wuz  ter  tell  you  what  I 
mean,  you  wouldn't  know  no  more  about  it 
dan  you  does  right  now.  You  don't  know  ez 
much  'bout  wimmen  folks  now  ez  you  did 
when  you  wuz  a  baby.  Don't  you  worry  'bout 
Miss  Puss,  kaze  when  I  left  de  house  she  wuz 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

laughin'l  She  say  dat  atter  you  git  done  wid 
her  shirt-waist,  she'll  be  glad  ter  have  it  back 
ag'in.  I  up  an'  told  dat  you  had  it  on  at 
church  Sunday/ 

"  Den  de  Jedge,  he  turn  red  an'  sorter  laugh. 
He  say,  '  Why,  Minervy  Ann,  I  didn't  go  ter 
church  Sunday/  I  'low:  *  Pity  you  didn't; 
you'd  'a'  seed  Miss  Puss  dar,  an',  I  tell  you,  she 
looks  scrumptious/  " 

The  lady  of  the  house  appeared  to  be 
very  much  interested  in  this  recital.  She 
laughed  as  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  paused.  Being 
a  woman,  she  could  appreciate  the  tactics 
which  the  old  negress  had  put  into  operation. 

"  Wellum,"  continued  Aunt  Minervy  Ann, 
now  addressing  herself  altogether  to  the  lady, 
"  I  went  ter  Jedge  Ballard's  room  wid  'im,  an* 
got  de  waist  an'  tuck  it  back  ter  Miss  Puss.  I 
declar',  ma'am,  you  oughter  des  V  been  dar 
fer  ter  see  de  way  she  went  on — she  fluttered 
'roun'  me  same  ez  a  chicken  wid  its  head  wrung 
off.  It  wuz,  *  O  Aunt  Minervy  Ann,  what'd 
you  tell  'im? '  an',  '  O  Aunt  Minervy  Ann, 
[232] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

what  did  he  say?  '  But  I  done  had  it  all  made 
up  in  my  min'  what  I  gwine  ter  tell  'er,  an'  so 
atter  she  tuck  de  waist  an'  look  it  all  over  fer 
ter  see  what  de  man  done  gone  an'  done  ter't, 
I  stood  dar,  I  did,  an'  hoi'  up  my  han's  in  a 
great  'miration. 

"  She  look  at  me,  she  did,  an'  she  fluttered 
an'  quivered  same  ez  ef  I  was  gwine  ter  take  'er 
ter  de  calaboose.  I  'low :  *  Miss  Puss,  I  des 
wish  you  could  'a'  been  wid  me  des  now! — no, 
I  don't,  nudder,  kase  you'd  'a'  des  flew'd  up  an' 
got  mad  when  dey  wa'n't  no  'casion  fer  ter  git 
mad.  I  went  ter  de  Jedge,  an'  I  ax  'im  ef  he 
got  any  stray  gyarments  'mongst  his  things; 
an'  he  make  answer  dat  he  know'd  right  pine- 
blank  what  I  come  fer — desso !  Den  he  open 
his  trunk,  an'  he  fish  dat  waist  fum  de  bottom 
— an'  look  at  it!  Dey  ain't  a  mark  ner  a 
wrinkle  on  it  ceppin'  dem  what  I  put  on  it  my- 
se'f.  He  ax  me  who  de  waist  b'long  ter,  an'  I 
tol  'im  dat  'twon't  do  no  good  ef  he  know'd,  an' 
dat  he  better  not  make  bad  matters  wuss. 
Den  he  say  he  kin  guess,  an'  I  'low  dat  he  kin 

[233] 


'the  Making  of  a  Statesman 

guess  all  he  wanter,  kaze  I  ain't  gwineter  tell 
'im  an'  git  deeper  inter  trouble  dan  what  I 
wuz.'  Miss  Puss,  she  say,  '  Oh,  I'm  so  thank 
ful  you  didn't  tell  'im  Aunt  Minervy  Ann — 
but  did  he  guess?'" 

Aunt  Minervy  Ann  paused  again  to  laugh, 
and  this  time  her  small  audience  laughed  with 
her,  not  so  much  at  what  she  said  as  at  the  curi 
ous  way  in  which,  by  gestures  of  the  hand,  by 
movements  of  the  head  and  body,  and  by  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  she  managed  to  give  us  an 
accurate  portrait  of  Miss  Puss  Gresham — qual 
ities  that  are  all  absent  from  this  dull  report. 

"  '  But  did  he  guess?  '  she  went  on,  mimick 
ing  the  voice  and  manner  of  Miss  Puss.  I 
'low, '  Yes'm,  he  guessed,  an'  he  guess  right  de 
fust  time.  He  say,  dat  ef  de  waist  b'long  ter 
anybody  in  de  town,  it  b'longs  ter  Miss  Gresh 
am.'  Miss  Puss  cry  out,  '  Why,  Aunt  Mi- 
nervy  Ann!  how  could  he  'a'  know'd?'  I  say, 
'  Dat  what  pestered  me,  Miss  Puss,  an'  I  ax  'im 
what  make  he  call  your  name  so  pat.  He  say 
he  ain't  bleedge  ter  tell  me,  but  he  don't  min' 
L234] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

it,  kaze  he  know  I  ain't  gwineter  say  nothin' 
'bout  it,  an'  den  he  up'n  tell  me  a  great  long 
rigamarole  'bout  how  one  time  when  we  wuz 
all  lots  younger  dan  what  we  is  now,  he  walked 
behime  you  one  Sunday  afternoon,  an'  all  de 
way  he  kin  smell  some  kinder  faint  perfume 
sorter  like  spice  pinks,  an'  dat  when  he  pick  up 
dat  waist  he  kin  smell  de  same.' 

"  An'  it's  de  trufe,  ma'am,  dat  Miss  Puss 
keeps  de  sweetest  scents  on  her  cloze  dat  any 
human  bein'  ever  smelt.  I  dunner  whar  she 
gits  um,  but  she's  got  um.  Dey  ain't  strong; 
deyer  so  faintlike  dat  you  dunner  whedder  you 
dremp  'bout  um  or  not — an'  you  can't  wash 
um  out.  You  may  drown  de  cloze  in  soap 
suds  er  lye-water,  an'  you  may  rub  an'  wring 
tell  you'  arms  ache — but  when  you  git  de  cloze 
all  i'oned  an'  done  up,  de  scent'll  be  dar  des  ez 
strong  an'  no  stronger." 

"  What  did  Miss  Gresham  say  when  you  told 
her  that  awful  fib?"  the  lady  of  the  house 
asked.  She  was  more  interested  in  the  prac 
tical  features  of  the  affair  than  she  was  in  the 

[235] 


tfhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

faint  sweet  smell  of  the  carnations;  but,  some 
how,  when  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  began  to  de 
scribe  perfume,  the  mind  of  one  of  her  listeners 
flew  away  back  to  the  old  days  when  his  grand 
mother's  garden-pinks  flung  their  faint  spices 
on  the  air. 

"  What  did  she  say,  ma'am?  Why,  she  like 
ter  had  a  little  bit  er  fit.  She  blushed  like  a 
school-gal,  an'  laughed  like  she  wuz  happy  wid- 
out  knowin'  de  rason  why.  She  didn't  know 
what  ter  say,  but  bimeby  she  hit  at  me  wid  a 
towel,  an'  'low,  *  Oh,  go  'long,  Aunt  Minervy 
Ann!  you  must  think  I'm  mighty  silly  ter 
b'lieve  all  dat.' 

"  Wellum,  I  went  'long,  kaze  I  didn't  want 
ter  tell  no  mo'  stories  dan  I  kin  he'p.  I  tol' 
Miss  Vallie  'bout  it,  an'  she  tuck  up  wid  de  idee 
right  off — you  know  how  de  wimmen  folks  is. 
An'  den  Marse  Tumlin  cotch  on — he  mo'  like 
a  'oman  in  some  er  his  ways  dan  any  grown 
man  I  ever  is  see.  When  Marse  Tumlin  take 
a  han'  in  anything,  it  bleedge  ter  show  some 
motion;  ef  dey  ain't  no  life  in  it,  he  ain't 
[236] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

gwineter  fool  wid  it.  So  'twa'n't  so  mighty 
long  'fo'  he  had  matters  on  de  move,  an'  he 
handle  um,  he  say,  des  like  dey  wuz  politics. 

"  De  nex'  Sunday  de  Jedge  wuz  in  church 
all  diked  out — Miss  Vallie  say  she  didn't  know 
dey  wuz  ez  fine  a  suit  er  cloze  in  town  ez  dat 
man  had  on;  an'  Miss  Puss,  she  had  on  some 
bran  new  duds.  I  seed  her  when  she  wuz  corn- 
in'  way  fum  church,  an'  she  look  des  like  a  pict- 
ur'  in  a  book;  not  knowin'  'er,  you'd  'a'  said 
she  wa'n't  a  day  over  twenty-five,  ef  dat.  Miss 
Vallie  say  dat  de  two  un  um  would  look  at  one 
an'er  des  like  dey  wuz  skeer'd  dey  wuz  com- 
mittin'  some  great  crime — stealin'  glimpses 
like  a  skeer'd  boy  steals  peaches,  one  at  a  time, 
an'  mighty  little  ones  at  dat. 

"  When  Marse  Tumlin  hear  dat,  he  say 
ever'thing  is  ripe  fer  de  campaign  ter  begin. 
He  tol*  Miss  Vallie  what  she  must  do  de  nex' 
day,  an',  sho  nuff,  she  done  it.  Ef  dey  wuz 
anything  in  de  worl'  dat  de  Jedge  wuz  special 
fond  un,  it  wuz  guns,  an',  atter  guns,  dogs. 
Dat  wuz  Marse  Tumlin's  weakness,  too.  Dem 
[237] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

two  men  'ud  go  out  on  a  drizzly  day  an'  walk 
fum  mornin'  tell  night  huntin'  birds,  an'  maybe 
dey'd  come  back  at  night  wid  one  poor  little 
pa'tridge  apiece.  De  nex'  day  wuz  Monday, 
an'  'long  'bout  ten  o'clock  Marse  Tumlin 
come,  an'  fotch  Jedge  Ballard  wid  'im.  Marse 
Tumlin  had  a  new  gun,  an'  dey  got  dat  out, 
an'  tuck  it  ter  pieces;  an'  while  dey  wuz  talkin' 
'bout  dat,  Miss  Vallie  went  thoo  de  hall,  an' 
hollered  an'  tol'  Marse  Tumlin  dat  he  nee'nter 
wait  dinner  fer  her,  kaze  she  ain't  know  when 
she  comin'  back. 

"  Wellum,  she  went  right  straight  ter  Miss 
Puss's — dey  wuz  mighty  good  frien's — an' 
nothin'  would  do  but  Miss  Puss  must  come  an' 
take  dinner  wid  'er,  atter  dey  went  down  town 
fer  ter  do  some  shoppin'.  Miss  Vallie  say  she 
want  Miss  Puss  ter  go  'long  wid  'er  an'  he'p 
Jer  choose  some  goods,  an'  dat  wa'n't  no  story 
needer,  kaze  dey  wa'n't  nobody  in  dem  dig- 
gin's  dat  had  a  quicker  eye  fer  color  dan  Miss 
Puss — I  wish  you  could  see  some  er  de  cloze 
dat  white  'oman  got.  Dey  ain't  so  mighty 

[338] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

fine,  when  dey  come  outer  de  sto',  but  when 
Miss  Puss  git  thoo  wid  um,  dey  look  like  dey 
er  de  finest  cloze  ter  be  foun'  anywhar — any- 
body'll  tell  you  dat.  When  she  dike  herse'f 
out,  she  sho  does  put  you  in  min'  er  de  pictures 
you  see  in  books.  She  ain't  purty  like  Miss 
Vallie,  but  dey's  sump'n  n'er  'bout  dat  make 
you  feel  better — she  kinder  rests  you. 

"  She  couldn't  git  outer  gwine  wid  Miss 
Vallie,  an'  I  don't  speck  she  tried  mighty  hard, 
kaze  ef  dey's  anything  she  likes  ter  do  it's  ter 
fumble  roun'  an'  fool  wid  de  stuff  dey  have  in 
de  sto's.  Miss  Vallie  dilly-dallied,  an'  went 
fum  sto'  ter  sto'  tell  mighty  nigh  dinner-time, 
an'  Marse  Tumlin,  he  had  de  Jedge  busy  ez  a 
bee,  tellin'  him  what  kinder  guns  is  de  best,  an' 
what  kinder  powder  an'  shot  would  do  de  bus 
iness  fer  fowl  an'  varmint.  I  had  my  part  ter 
play,  an'  I  played  it.  I  had  ter  have  dinner  on 
de  table  des  'fo'  de  clock  struck  twelve,  an* 
'twuz  all  ready  at  a  quarter  ter  twelve,  an'  I 
rung  de  bell.  De  Jedge  start  up  like  he 
wanter  go  on  'bout  his  business,  ef  he  had  any, 

[339] 


*fhe  Making  of  a  Statesman 

but  Marse  Tumlin  totch  'im  up  wid  a  toddy — 
one  er  de  long  sweet  uns  dat  he  know  how  ter 
make — an'  when  de  Jedge  march  inter  de  din- 
in'-room  he  lookt  ez  game  ez  one  deze  yer 
fightin'  chickens. 

"  I  wuz  kinder  skeer'd  dat  Miss  Vallie'd 
overstay  her  time — you  know  how  wimmen 
folks  is  when  dey  gits  ter  foolin'  'roun'  in  de 
sto's  whar  dey  buys  der  dresses — but  she  come 
in  'fo'  dey  got  thoo  de  soup,  an*  by  dat  time 
Marse  Tumlin  an'  de  Jedge  wuz  'sputin*  'bout 
some  kinder  doin's,  I  dunner  what;  an'  dey 
wuz  so  het  up  wid  der  'pinions  dat  dey  ain't 
hear  Miss  Vallie  an'  Miss  Puss  when  dey  come 
in,  an'  I  had  de  do'  shet  'twix'  Miss  Vallie's 
room  an'  de  dinin'-room. 

"  Wellum,  when  de  do'  did  open,  I  let  you 
know  de  'spute  wuz  cut  off  'twix'  de  head  an' 
de  tail.  Per  de  time  it'd  take  you  ter  count 
ten,  dey  wuz  mo'  stillness  in  dat  quarter  dan 
dey  ever  is  ter  be  ag'in.  Ef  a  bug  had  a-flew'd 
ag'in'  de  wall  I  b'lieve  'twould  'a'  sounded 
like  a  cannon,  an'  ef  I  had  a  stuck  my  head  in 
[240] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

de  do'  an*  'a'  hollered  Booh,  Miss  Puss  an'  de 
Jedge  would  'a'  bofe  fainted  dead  away.  De 
Jedge  cotch  his  bref  right  in  de  middle  er  de 
biggest  kinder  talk,  an'  Miss  Puss  fetched  a 
gasp — an'  all  dis  time  Marse  Tumlin's  eyes  wuz 
a-dancin'  des  like  he  wuz  at  a  circus.  All  dis 
tuck  place  fum  de  time  de  do'  opened  ter  de 
minnit  when  Miss  Vallie  an'  Marse  Tumlin 
wuz  a-fixin'  matters  up  so  de  yuthers  wouldn't 
have  a  word  ter  say  ef  dey  didn't  wanter.  An' 
dey  didn't  wanter! 

"  Miss  Vallie,  she  talk  ter  Miss  Puss,  an* 
Marse  Tumlin  rattled  away  at  de  Jedge,  an' 
'twa'n't  long  'fo'  dey  wuz  feelin'  better  dan  dey 
thought  dey  would.  Miss  Puss  seed  dat  de 
Jedge  wa'n't  makin'  no  'rangements  fer  ter  eat 
her  up,  an'  de  Jedge,  he  seed  dat  'twuz  des  ez 
easy  fer  ter  set  at  de  same  table  wid  two  nice 
wimmen  ez  'twuz  ter  set  dar  wid  a  lot  er  men, 
specially  when  he  ain't  had  ter  do  no  talkin'. 
Wellum,  dey  couldn't  'a'  fell  inter  better  han's 
fer  makin'  um  feel  at  home  an'  at  der  ease,  an' 
'twa'n't  long  'fo'  dey  wuz  all  talkin'  des  like 
[241] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

dey  had  dinner  terge'er  eve'  day.  Atter  din 
ner,  Miss  Vallie  played  on  de  peanner,  an',  fust 
thing  you  know,  Miss  Puss  wuz  singin'  some 
kinder  song  'bout  tetchin'  de  harp  gently,  er 
sump'n  n'er  like  dat.  All  I  know,  it  'uz  mighty 
purty,  an'  de  Jedge  he  sot  dar,  lookin'  like 
he  des  beginnin'  ter  know  what  'tis  ter  be 
livin'. 

"  I  kinder  had  de  idee  dat  dey'd  be  some 
trouble  when  de  time  come  fer  de  Jedge  an' 
Miss  Puss  ter  go,  kaze  de  man  sot  dar  like 
somebody  intranced — he  didn't  know  what 
time  wuz.  Ef  you'd  'a'  axed  'im  right  quick 
whedder  it  wuz  day  or  night,  he  couldn't  V 
told  you  widout  lookin'  out  de  winder.  Bime- 
by  I  got  a  chance  ter  beckon  ter  Miss  Vallie, 
an'  I  axed  her  not  ter  fling  de  fat  in  de  fire  by 
hintin'  fer  de  Jedge  fer  ter  walk  home  wid  Miss 
Puss.  I  say,  '  Ef  dey's  gwineter  be  any  walk- 
in'  home,  you  go  'long  wid  um,'  an'  des  dat 
away  she  fixed  it. 

"Wellum,  all  dat  would  V  been  thowed 
away  ef  I  hadn't  'a'  thought  ter  steal  Miss 
[242] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

Puss's  parasol.  Marse  Tumlin  say  dat  dey 
ain't  nobody  in  de  roun'  worl'  would  V  done 
dat  but  ol'  Minervy  Ann,  an'  I  speck  dat's  so." 

"  But  why,"  asked  the  lady  of  the  house, 
"  did  you  steal  the  parasol,  and  what  did 
that  have  to  do  with  the  Judge  and  Miss 
Gresham?  " 

"  It  come  ter  me  all  in  a  flash,"  replied  Aunt 
Minervy  Ann,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  des  know'd 
in  reason  dat  dat  dinner  would  be  de  last  un 
it,  ef  de  Jedge  ain't  got  some  skuse  fer  ter  call 
on  'er;  kaze  dat  dinner  doin's  wuz  des  a  hap 
pen  so,  de  way  she  look  at  it." 

"  Wouldn't  she  have  had  enough  politeness 
to  ask  the  gentleman  to  call  on  her,  if  she  had 
wanted  him  to  call?  "  inquired  the  lady  of  the 
house. 

"  Wellum,  in  a  case  like  dat,  p'liteness  ain't 
got  much  ter  do  wid  it.  De  man  ain't  been 
a-callin'  on  'er,  an'  dey  ain't  no  way  fer  her  ter 
know  dat  it'd  be  'gree'ble  ter  him  ter  call. 
You  got  ter  put  dese  shy  folks  by  deyse'f  ef 
you  gwineter  say  what  dey  moughter  done.  I 
[243] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

most  know  Miss  Puss  never  did  ax  a  man  fer 
ter  call  on  'er,  an'  ez  de  sayin'  is,  you  can't  larn 
a  olf  dog  new  tricks.  Anyhow,"  Aunt  Minervy 
Ann  went  on,  throwing  her  head  back  as  if  to 
show  by  the  movement  that  she  was  ready  to 
take  the  whole  responsibility — "  anyhow,  I 
stole  de  parasol;  they  ain't  no  rubbin'  dat  out 
— I  stole  it  whilst  dey  wuz  all  eatin'  dinner,  an* 
de  nex'  time  I  went  atter  Jedge  Ballard's  wash- 
in'  I  put  it  in  de  bottom  er  my  basket,  an'  I 
tuck  de  fust  good  chance  when  he  wa'n't  look- 
in'  to  slip  it  out  an'  lean  it  in  de  cornder  by  de 
bureau.  Den  I  put  his  cloze  in  de  basket,  an' 
des  ez  I  start  ter  go  I  turn  'roun',  I  did,  an'  say, 
*  Jedge  Ballard,  ain't  dat  Miss  Puss's  parasol?  ' 
He  look  at  me  like  he  thought  I  'uz  crazy.  I 
'low,  '  Dat  parasol  right  dar — ain't  dat  de  one 
dat  she  been  makin'  sech  a  parade  'bout,  ez  ef 
dey  wa'n't  na'er  nudder  parasol  in  de  Nunited 
State? ' 

"  Wellum,  when  he  see  dat  parasol,  it  look 
like  he  got  so  weak  dat  he'd  'a'  fell  down  eft 
a  breff  er  win'  had  blow'd  'gin  'im.     He  look 
[244] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

at  me,  an*  den  he  look  at  de  parasol,  an*  he 
say :  '  Minervy  Ann,  I  ain't  never  lay  eyes  on 
dat  thing  befo' — I'll  take  my  oath  on  it.  How 
in  de  heav'm's  name  could  it  'a'  got  in  here? ' 
I  'low :  '  Well,  it  didn't  come  yer  by  itse'f,  sho; 
I  been  livin'  a  mighty  long  time,  an'  I  ain't 
never  see  no  parasol  git  up  an'  walk.  De  way 
I  look  at  it,  you  must  'a'  picked  it  up  when  you 
wuz  at  our  house  t'er  day — you  picked  it  up 
maybe  ter  han'  it  ter  Miss  Puss,  er  maybe  ter 
tote  it  fer  'er,  an'  you  got  ter  thinkin'  'bout 
business  er  sump'n,  an'  fergot  all  about  it.' 
He  look  at  me,  an'  den  he  look  at  de  parasol, 
an'  he  say :  *  Ef  I  did  I  must  be  losin'  my  min'. 
Minervy  Ann,  kin  I  git  you  ter  take  it  ter  Miss 
Gresham?  '  I  'low:  '  Dat  you  can't — dat  you 
can't!  Dey'd  say  right  off  dat  ol'  Minervy 
Ann  tried  to  steal  Miss  Puss's  parasol  an'  got 
skeer'd  an'  tuck  it  back.  Oh,  no !  I'm  too  ol' 
fer  ter  run  my  head  in  dat  kinder  trap! 
Whyn't  you  take  it  back  yo'se'f?  You  don't 
want  no  better  skuse  dan  dat  fer  callin'  on 
Miss  Puss.  Dat  des  what  you  need — you  been 

[245] 


Making  of  a  Statesman 

runnin'  fum  de  wimmen  so  long  dat  you  got 
scales  on  you !  " 

"  Ef  you'd  V  seed  dat  white  man  when  I 
say  dat,  suh,"  said  Aunt  Minervy  Ann,  looking 
at  me,  "you'd  'a'  laughed  yo'se'f  ter  death. 
He  turn  roun'  an*  look  at  hisse'f  in  de  glass. 
'  Scales,  Minervy  Ann — scales ! '  Dey  ain't 
nothin'  funnier  in  dis  worl'  dan  some  er  de  men 
folks.  I  'low,  *  I  ain't  talkin'  'bout  scales  on 
yo'  body;  I'm  talkin'  'bout  scales  on  yo'  min' 
an'  manners/ 

"  Wellum  " — Aunt  Minervy  Ann  turned 
again  to  the  lady  of  the  house — "  de  parasol 
done  de  work.  I  went  right  straight  an'  tol' 
Miss  Puss  dat  de  Jedge  had  her  parasol,  an' 
she  look  at  me  in  de  funniest  kinder  way — des 
like  a  little  gal  does  when  you  ketch  um  in 
some  kinder  mischief — an'  den  she  laugh,  an' 
ax  me  what  I  reckon  de  Jedge  want  wid  it.  I 
say  I  speck  he  want  sump'n  ter  'member  her 
by.  Well,  de  Jedge,  he  put  off  takin'  dat  par 
asol  back  fer  de  longest,  but,  bimeby,  de  day 
'fo'  las'  Christmus,  he  mustered  up  sperrit  nuff 
[246] 


Miss  Puss's  Parasol 

fer  ter  call  on  Miss  Puss;  an'  atter  he  got  dar, 
he  must  'a'  got  bold  ez  a  lion,  fer  not  long  atter 
dat,  Miss  Puss  tell  me  she  gwineter  git  mar 
ried.  I  say  '  When? '  She  'low,  '  Nex'  fall! ' 
I  des  fetched  one  loud  squall,  an'  fell  on  de  flo'. 
She  ax  what  de  matter,  an'  I  make  answer  dat 
we'll  all  be  dead  by  dat  time.  Den  she  say 
dat  I  ain't  ax  her  who  de  man  gwineter  be,  an' 
I  'low  dat  dey  ain't  no  need  fer  me  ter  ax,  kaze 
I  know'd  'fo'  she  did. 

"  It's  all  fix  up  by  dis  time,  an*  'fo'  I  see  you- 
all  ag'in  Miss  Puss's  sho  nuff  troubles  will  be 
at  der  be'ginnin'.  Ain't  I  right,  ma'am,  'bout 
de  troubles?  "  With  this  good-natured  fling 
at  me,  Aunt  Minervy  Ann  went  on  her  way. 


THE  END 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  75^04 


957084 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


